


When We Were Young

by Iravaid



Category: Spies In Disguise (2019)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Agent McFord AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, F/M, M/M, Original Character(s), Rivals to Friends to Enemies, homies fighting in the swamp, spy work was kinda brutal before walter got into the mix
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-02-23 03:03:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 27
Words: 117,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23871328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iravaid/pseuds/Iravaid
Summary: Based on the scrapped idea that Killian was originally Lance's partner before Kyrgyzstan, and instead called Tristan McFord.For eleven years, Special Agent Lance Sterling has flown solo. He's perfectly fine on his own, and has proven it time and time again. But, there was a time before the Kyrgyzstan Disaster; when one was two and our agent wasn't so alone.Agent McFord and Agent Sterling were once the top operatives in HTUV, having survived the year-long Agent Selection Course, and navigated the tumultuous life of a field agent.Ever wonder what happened to Agent Sterling's partner? Many do, few actually know.
Relationships: Killian & Lance Sterling, Tristan McFord & Lance Sterling
Comments: 53
Kudos: 37





	1. 1999

**Author's Note:**

> This is a biggun, the word document i have right now for it is 90k+ words, and that's just the training aspect. Most of it will be in Lance's point of view but it does have moments of insight from other characters, Tristan primarily
> 
> It starts out slow but gradually increases in intensity and becomes more interesting as the characters grow and the stakes get higher. I promise
> 
> This work is divvied up into three arcs; Training, Missions and Post Kyrgyzstan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Washington D.C.  
> January

Lance Sterling is the pride of HTUV, the youngest and brightest in the American cohort. He is fluid and sharp, always outmanoeuvring or outwitting his opponents. It was no surprise he made agent several years younger than his colleagues.

As an agent Lance could be active on _real_ spy missions. The kind where an agent would banter with their quarry while they fight on a yacht in the middle of the ocean, or during an exclusively elite masquerade ball. Where the red numbered countdown to total annihilation would be thwarted by the daring agent at the last second. Millions of lives saved without them even knowing they were ever in danger. The agent would kiss their paramour and the bad guy would be dragged off to jail, cursing their name. The kind Lance knew he was meant to do. Alone.

Tristan McFord originally served with the Royal Australian Engineers, showing talent in robotic and mechanical engineering. He was a sapper for two years before his recommendation to HTUV by the Australian military. Him and several other Australians were shipped to Washington, where two-hundred international candidates took the entrance exams over a fortnight. Tristan was one of sixty to secure a position, passing the written and physical tests with flying colours.

He was to be Lance’s partner. Much to the latter’s devastation.

Sterling knew this had to be a mistake; he’d proven he was the best. He didn’t need another agent slowing him down.

“Joy, I can do this by myself. I fly solo, remember?” Director Jenkins, on her way to her office, slows but doesn’t stop.

“You haven’t even gotten off the ground yet, _Trainee_ Agent Sterling.” She shoots him a particularly severe side-eye. Lance sputters as the director continues, “all HTUV agents work in pairs, you included. It doesn’t matter how high you scored and how well you wooed the interviewer; that ain’t real life. When you’re out there amongst the wolves you’ll need a partner to rely on.” Her expression softens; like she was remembering something, or someone. Lance was too indignant to notice the change at the time.

“I haven’t needed any help to get to where I am now; I can handle myself. I’m not incompetent!” He flings his arms to the sides for emphasis.

“I know you aren’t, Lance. But this isn’t about your capabilities. It’s someone having your back when you need it most.” Joy stops in front of her door and reaches inside her briefcase. “Here,” she hands Lance a manila folder with a bright red _CONFIDENTIAL_ stamped along the top. “Do some extra reading, don’t tell anyone you have this, and for God’s sake don’t antagonise the man. He’s more than a good fit for you.” Without giving Lance any chance to object Jenkins enters her office, leaving him alone in the corridor.

* * *

That evening Lance reads the file in the privacy of his one-bedroom apartment, accompanied by a cup of black tea. The interview had comprised of several logical and moral questions as well as a personality test where the candidate was asked targeted questions intended to provoke an emotional response. Judging by the notes left by the interviewers they were impressed by Tristan’s reasoning skills and temperament. To Lance the scribbled psychological analysis meant very little. He skims over the document, keying into parts he finds interesting.

**Audio: [440.ICIS]**

**Transcribed: [14 January 1999]**

**[00:00]**

**Interviewer:** Good evening, candidate. Please state your name, city of origin, and the organisation you were recommended by.

 **Candidate:** Tristan McFord. Brisbane, Australia. Australian Armed Forces.

 **Interviewer:** Mhm, thank you. Now, Mr McFord, why do you wish to join the HTUV?

 **Candidate:** In all honesty, sir, I wasn’t aware the HTUV existed until a month ago, when my CO told me he’d recommended me to a – uh - overseas organisation. I was given a clearance level to read up on you, as preparation, and I was impressed. You people do good work, and I want in.

 **Interviewer:** Alright. Would you be able to name a time when you’ve shown initiative and used your analytical abilities to otherwise solve a problem or help another individual?

Tristan’s reply was long winded and technical; something about faulty engines. Lance skips down a couple lines, sipping his hot tea.

**[03:25]**

**Interviewer:** Mr McFord, has there been a time in your life where you have had to handle a considerable amount of stress? If so, how would you react to the same situation now and how would it differ?

 **Candidate:** Nothing’s really come to mind. My family’s pretty lucky in that respect and I haven’t been deployed to any warzones yet.

 **Interviewer:** I see…

**[04:00]**

**Interviewer:** What do you believe is your greatest weakness? What would others say it is?

 **Candidate:** I’ve been told I’ve too short a temper and that I can be more dramatic than necessary.

 **Interviewer:** And what do you think it is?

 **Candidate:** Hmh. I’d say I’m impulsive, I’ve got to learn how to take that deep breath and consider my options before acting.

 **Interviewer:** Would you say you’ve been working on that behaviour?

 **Candidate:** Bit difficult in the army, but I’ve taken some advice from drill instructors n’ that’s helped me so far.

 **Interviewer:** Ah, good.

**[05:12]**

**Interviewer:** Now tell me, what is the mission of HTUV?

 **Candidate:** Depends on who you ask, isn’t it?

 **Interviewer:** Oh?

 **Candidate:** Yeah. I mean - some’ll say technological development; others believe you’re responsible for blackmail and sabotage across the world; a couple more will say you broker peace with the shadow leaders of foreign nations.

 **Interviewer:** True.

 **Candidate:** To which one?

 **Interviewer:** I’ll be asking the questions this evening, Mr McFord.

 **Candidate:** Hmph.

 **Interviewer:** Uh-huh. Was there ever a time your loyalty was challenged? How did you respond?

Lance snorts at that. He’d received similar treatment from his interviewer, a one-eyed woman with steel grey hair. He takes a slurp of his warm tea and scans to the next question.

**[06:55]**

**Interviewer:** Have you ever risked your life for another individual?

 **Candidate:** Pfht. Shit. Yeah there was one time, when I was about sixteen. I was working for my uncle at the time, helping him flip houses. I was painting the fence when I heard this awful screaming coming from a house down the street. I jumped the fence and ran to where I heard the noise and saw a house with the front door kicked in. I was a bloody idiot and ran inside without thinking. There was this bogan on too many steroids holding a woman to the wall by her neck. Her face was all bloody, punched in. And he had a knife. I threw my paint brush at him, ‘cause it was the only thing I had on me. He dropped the girl and came at me with the knife, I was lucky and jerked back so it only cut my shirt. I got in close, like me dad taught me, and kneed him as hard as I could between the legs and kicked as he went down, and – well - I kept kicking him to make sure he _stayed_ down. I brought the poor girl over to the house my uncle and I were working on and called the coppers. Haven’t heard from her since, but she did say thank you before the ambulance took her.

 **Interviewer:** And, the assailant?

 **Candidate:** That was kept confidential, for his safety. Ha. Like he deserved the protection.

 **Interviewer:** That certainly is a story. You were very brave.

 **Candidate:** I guess…

Lance blows a gust of air out of his mouth. _Shit_. He takes a gulp of his lukewarm tea.

**[09:02]**

**Interviewer:** I see. Now then, has there ever been a point in your life where you’ve kept a secret?

 **Candidate:** Ha, of course. Plenty of times.

 **Interviewer:** Care to elaborate?

 **Candidate:** Wouldn’t be good at keeping secrets if I told them to every seppo and pommie I met, now, would I?

 **Interviewer:** Hm. Alright.

Lance sees that the interviewer had scribbled ‘seppo’ and ‘pommie’ in their notes with multiple question marks surrounding them.

The interview lasted fifteen minutes overall; ending with the two exchanging pleasantries and the interviewer informing McFord the taxi to his hotel is complementary, but tips are encouraged.

Lance also reads that Tristan was experienced using bolt-action rifles and could play the violin. The interviewer noted McFord was very independent and dedicated. They believed he would make a capable field agent.

With Lance’s fears somewhat assuaged he settles down for the night, finishing off the rest of his tea and flopping under the covers. His chest was aflutter with excitement for the next day. His mind was racing with thoughts about finally being an agent, and the missions he would go on.

Lance dreams about academies and strangers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is mainly to introduce baby lance and pre-deep fried tristan mcford. Updates don't have a set schedule, i'll post each chapter as they come. But dw, I will finish it! This is mainly For Me and my self indulgence, lmao, hope you stick along for the ride.
> 
> Originally i just posted huge 20k+ word chapters for each phase,.,.,. I've Grown Now and divvied them up into more palatable chunks
> 
> Some of these chapters will have more graphic content and will have their own separate warnings. more tags will be added as the story develops, no need to put them all up when i've barely got past the first chapter.
> 
> Comments and kudos are v v much appreciated!!


	2. Phase I - (part i)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pennsylvania  
> January

The newly inducted HTUV agents believed the worst was behind them when they were accepted into the organisation. They had no idea what HTUV held in store for them with basic training: an intense, year-long program designed to separate the steel from the slag. The exact details of the training were kept intentionally secret to prevent prior preparation. Lance knew some of the senior agents; when asked they’d grimace and tell him he’ll find out soon enough.

Washington in January is a quiet one. Lance’s only companion is the fog of his breath and the orange halo of the streetlights as he walks to the pickup point. He hefts his duffle bag back up his shoulder from where it was slipping and keeps his hands burrowed in the pockets of his jacket.

Three coaches idle by the damp sidewalk for heat and so the driver can listen to the local AM radio show. Their paint jobs are white with _Whippet Transportation_ written across the sides in blocky black lettering. Leaning against a streetlight is a man wearing a blue suit under a dark grey topcoat. As Lance draws near to the bus, the man’s head twitches in his direction. His polished shoes glisten in the orange light.

“Lance Sterling?”

Lance stops moving and turns to the man with a raised brow.

“Yeah?”

The man nods, like Lance was confirming what he already knew.

“Onto the second bus, recruit, first one’s full.” The man looks up at Lance with hooded eyes, “good luck.”

Lance nods awkwardly at him and makes his way to the next coach.

“Uh, thanks.”

The man doesn’t move but Lance swears he sees the flash of a crooked half smile.

The interior of the bus is warm, and he can hear someone on the radio talking softly about the weather in the local area. The bus is two thirds full of people from many nationalities. Some talk quietly amongst each other, mindful of others trying to catch a few hours’ sleep. Lance puts his bag in the upper compartment and settles in the window seat of an empty row near the front. The seats are red and scratchy, abstract triangles dot the fabric. Lance pulls out his MP3 player and listens to music, staring out the window into the city.

* * *

The sky lightens and the streetlights turn off. The bus fills with more tired people. A woman wearing a burgundy MIT hoodie takes the seat beside him. They exchange polite nods, then she pulls out a paperback and Lance resumes looking out the window. Eventually the driver closes the coach doors and shifts it into gear. The vehicles lurch into motion and lumber onwards until they’re out of the city.

The pass Fort Lincoln, then Baltimore, and then there’s a nondescript stretch of farms and woodland that pass in a green and brown blur. Small towns and the occasional neon motel sign pass just as quickly. His playlist is an hour and a half long for a full play-through, it’s on the fifth song of the second play-through when he takes off his headphones and switches the music player off. He arches his back and rolls his shoulders to banish the stiffness.

Most of the people in the coach are awake now, he sees one sleeping with an eye-mask they offer at airports, their mouth is hanging open as they snore. Lance gives a small laugh at the sight, he half envies how unconscious they can be. He hears other people speaking in English, French, Spanish, and other languages he’d recognise but wouldn’t be able to identify. There’s an air of hushed excitement; they’re going to _spy school_. How crazy is that?

Lance wonders how many will go home to their respective countries and people, dreams shattered. Only a quarter of the candidate body will become agents, after all. Lance knows he’ll be counted among those. He’s too good not to.

_Pennsylvania Welcomes You_ greets Lance in cheery white font. The sun has finally crested the horizon and the sky is a morning fanfare of yellow and red. The coaches snake through the streets of a city waking up and Lance sees more cars on the highway.

Suddenly, the coaches make a sharp left turn down a dirt path bracketed by trees. Lance is too distracted to see the driver change the radio to 823.4 AM and turn on the intercom. The coaches turn left at a junction and go down the road that ends at a lake. A tinny voice sounds from the ceiling:

_Good morning, candidates of the HTUV Agent Selection Course. I am Head Instructor Wells, and this is Blue Marsh Compound._

Lance frowns and looks out the window to try and spot the facility. You can’t just hide a building meant to house large vehicles and over one hundred people. To Lance’s confusion, he sees nothing.

_Upon entering our compound, your luggage will be taken to your dorms. You will then be given a tour of the facility, provided a map, proper HTUV uniform, and the schedule. It is here our expectations of you will be made clear._

Lance hears gasping from the woman beside him, he turns to see her half out of her seat, staring straight ahead with wide eyes. Lance looks in the same direction and sucks in a breath.

The lake _splits_ as giant metal structures glide open with little resistance. A ramp leads into darkness and they drive down beneath the water. The structure, from what Lance can see, is strangely dry. Yellow emergency lights line the walls and guide the coaches further in. The excited whispering spikes with exclamations and curses. Some people are half standing over each other to get a better look of the outside. Lance sees the driver’s eyes crinkle with amusement from the rear-view mirror.

_We please ask all candidates to treat fellow students and HTUV staff with respect and fairness. We kindly request no external contact be made outside provided slots._

The tunnel becomes lighter and lighter until it widens out into a domed shaped roof of glass, reinforced with a thick metal frame. Greenish-blue light filters in from the water above and sunspots dance on the concrete floor. Lance sees fish and ducks swim overhead, and laughs at its fantastical effect.

_Please do not attempt to scale the walls, and no feeding the wildlife. Thank you, and welcome to Blue Marsh Compound, Pennsylvania._

The road leads to a large building made from glass, concrete, and metal. It’s circular with large supporting pillars and few windows. The glass curves and connects with the top of the roof. Lance hasn’t seen anything like this, and he grew up surrounded by everything HTUV.

There is a group of people waiting by the entrance to the building, all wear blue shirts smartly tucked into black slacks. The coaches line up just outside the entrance and the passengers file out, staring at their surroundings with open awe and disbelief. Some of the staff move through the crowd of recruits, taking bags and names. There is a static of chattering voices and shuffling bodies.

A voice of iron cuts through the din.

“Quiet.”

A hush falls over the crowd. One hundred and fourteen pairs of eyes focus on a short, wiry man wearing a worn baseball cap. He regards the fresh faces with sharp eyes and crossed arms. He doesn’t seem to spend much time on any one candidate. Someone coughs.

“I have already introduced myself and this facility.” Head Instructor Wells starts, “my fellow members of staff will hold the introductory meeting and tours of this compound. You will be given today to rest and prepare.” He gives a tight-lipped grin, “tomorrow is when we see what you’re all made of.” Murmurs ripple through the group but are quickly silenced by his stony glare. Wells nods to his colleagues and walks back into the compound.

* * *

The tour is held by a man and a woman, Both taking turns in talking to the group as they are led through the building.

Blue Marsh Lake was bought from the American military three decades ago by Director Jenkins’ predecessor, Director Wallace. Construction took over five years and the better part of ten million dollars. It’s one of the most technologically advanced HTUV training facilities, second only to the one in Boston. Blue Marsh replaced a decommissioned training facility in Ohio as the first phase of field agent training.

Lance and the other candidates are ushered into a large room, not unlike university lecture halls. The man sits at the back of the room, working a sleek-looking projector while the woman speaks.

“Here at Blue Marsh you will complete the first stage of your training; Phase One. Over the course of thirteen weeks you will all be tested through intense physical and mental challenges. Phase One has the highest number of drop on requests out of the entire course due to this.” Someone behind Lance makes a nervous groan in the back of their throat.

“The first three weeks, or Indoctrination, will acclimatise all of you to HTUV standards. On the third week an aptitude test is held to determine your speciality and language course.

“You can choose to drop if the training becomes too taxing by signing a Drop on Request form. Medical dropping will be enforced if need be. You will be performance dropped if you fall below the passing grades at any time.” The woman pauses to let it sink in. “HTUV expects nothing but the best for field agents. We strive for excellence and will not tolerate the average.”

She went on to explain the slide showing the schedule for the next thirteen weeks. Lance didn’t like the look of all the four-mile conditioning runs and performance checks. He heard some muttered curses and disbelieving sighs roil through the group. Some were already second guessing their abilities. He won’t.

When the presentation ends, the candidates are handed their temporary trainee IDs. Lance is given a thin plastic card with both his face, name, and ID number: 034. He admires the holographic HTUV logo that disappears and reappears when tilted. The tour resumes and they are taken deeper into the facility

The ground floor holds the garage, indoor firing range, gymnasium, Olympic-sized pool, cafeteria, and multi-purpose rooms. All neatly contained within the bare concrete walls, and fluorescent lights lining the ceilings.

The top floor has a much higher ceiling made from the same glass as the bubble. Blue and yellow light gently filtering in with the occasional shadow darting across. Up there were small recreational areas, a half-circle of couches and kitchenette to each, shower rooms, and the dorms. The candidates were then assigned their rooms in numerical order. For the time being they would share one bedroom to two candidates.

Then the candidates were left to their own devices, with the man and the woman heading back to the bottom floor. Some students filter off to explore. Others, including Lance, linger. Some turn and talk to the people they sat beside on the bus, while others introduced themselves to complete strangers.

Lance plops himself onto the nearest couch, and simply watches. He sees tight shoulders and barely-there frowns in most of the group. They’re nervous and the presentation didn’t make things better. Lance doesn’t share the fear; he wants to show everyone what he can do. This is a hurdle he must cross and it’s one he has to clear well to impress the instructors.

Impress the instructors; impress the board; impress Joy. No need for a partner here. Lance is perfectly fine no – better on his own.

“Nervous?” Says a voice to the side of him. Lance flicks his eyes to a grey t-shirt, then up to – oh fuck, he recognises that face. Tristan McFord looks down at a wide-eyed Lance, brow raised, and arms crossed. “You alright?”

“Uh, yeah. No. No, I’m not nervous.”

“Uh-huh.”

Lance snorts, regaining his composure.

“Listen man, I’ve got this thing in the bag. All I’ve got to do is show the instructors my stuff. Then it’s a quick ride to field agent.”

Tristan frowns at this.

“Awful cocky there aren’t you? It’s not like this thing was made to be easy. Doubt they’ll be playing favourites either.” Tristan mutters that last part under his breath.

“Hey, you call it being cocky, I call it confidence. And I’m _confident_ because I know I’m better than everyone else.” Lance shrugs with one shoulder and smirks. Tristan blinks and shifts to one side.

“How can you even say that? It’s the first bloody day.”

“Half the people here are already looking like they’re ready to sign their DoR forms, not a good first sign. That presentation didn’t exactly assuage any fear either.”

“And you’re completely unaffected?”

“Well, a big part of becoming an agent is to think like one. Working through stress and ignoring distractions is a part of that.”

“How’re you so sure you’ll get through this? You can’t be as good as you’re trying to convince me. You’re just a kid.”

It’s Lance’s turn to frown.

“I’m not a kid. I worked to get here, and I got in. Enough said.”

“Look awful baby faced to not be one. Bet you don’t even have proper combat experience, now, do you?”

“Fuck off.”

“Not doing too well ignoring stress now, huh? You sure you’re cut out to be here?”

Lance is standing now, facing Tristan.

“I know I am, and you know what? I’ll even graduate top of this class. I’m Just. That. Good.”

People are staring, some seem annoyed and others simply amused. Tristan stares at Lance, then huffs out a laugh. He shakes his head and turns away.

“Right. Sure mate. Whatever you say.”

Lance glares at Tristan’s retreating back. Then he stomps off to his own dorm, which is thankfully void of the other occupant. He claims the nearest bed, face down on the pillow. He tries to swallow the indignation and anger. He knows he can do this. He doesn’t need to prove anything to anyone, especially that Australian.

For all their diligent note taking, the interviewer had failed to note McFord was a _prick_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So i've broken up all current chapters (from phase i to phase iii) into much shorter secctions so it's not as much of a slog for all of you to read, and also so i can make little points here and there and idk,.,. pad out the chapter to words ratio? w/e
> 
> so begins The Training. i've taken inspiration from BUD/s, bootcamp, SAS selection courses etc  
> so lance is a little shit, which y;know, isn't much of a surprise lmao, too bad tristan isn't the biggest fan of that, lads aren't off to a great start there, huh?
> 
> fun wee tidbit: blue marsh lake is a real lake in Pennsylvania owned by the US military


	3. Phase I - (part ii)

Lance wakes with a jolt to the sound of klaxons ringing. He hears his roommate, a Russian man named Piotr, curse as he groggily raises his head. It’s the first morning of Phase I; time to get to work. Lance quickly changes into his uniform and washes his face in the communal shower rooms. It must be early because the lake above the compound is still dark.

Before they get to eat, Wells and several other instructors put them through something called The Grinder, an intense three-hour workout. The sheer number of push-ups, sit-up, triceps dips, and pull-ups would be enough to overwhelm the anyone. The instructors shouting abuse at them and the occasional spray of the hose was really the cherry on top of the sweaty, tired cake. Lance is too tired to think about his blossoming feud with Tristan or what other people's first impression of him was. All he’s worried about right now is surviving this set.

The only sound in the large gymnasium is the panting of the candidates and yelling instructors. The smell becomes pungent around the second hour and the humidity rises from the sweat and body heat. Lance’s arms are burning, and it feels like each breath is too short. Wells ends The Grinder with three sharp whistles and Lance holds himself in a plank, trying to calm the roaring in his ears. Some candidates flop to the floor in relief. Lance sees Tristan sitting up, head titled to the ceiling and panting. There’s a woman with large arms and short blonde hair, already standing and circling the gym in slow steps to cool down.

* * *

The candidates limp into the cafeteria, ravenous from the exercise. There’s a soft clinking of cheap metal utensils and hushed murmuring. Lance takes a seat beside Piotr, they exchange nods, then dig into their food. A woman’s voice pipes up adjacent from Lance.

“So, what happened last night with you and that Australian guy?”

Lance looks up to see the same woman he had sat beside on the bus; she’s wearing the same blue tracksuit as Lance, her brown hair is tied in a bun. Lance shakes his head.

“I don’t know, man. Guess we had a disagreement.”

“The two of you were a fair bit riled up from just a disagreement.”

Lance just shrugs and takes a bite of sausage. The woman seems to take the hint that Lance is finished talking about it when she changes the subject.

“We sat on the bus together, I didn’t catch your name. I’m Moira Callaghan.”

Lance takes her outstretched hand and shakes it.

“Lance. Lance Sterling.” Lance gestures to the man beside him, “take it you know Piotr.” Piotr gives a grunt, not looking up from his food.

“Aye, we’re moaning about how sore we are right now. How high can you lift your arms, Lance?”

“Oh, I’m not even gonna try.”

Moira chuckles at that. Lance found himself talking with her for the rest of breakfast. There was an easy way about Moira that made people want to interact. Sometimes Piotr would interject with a sarcastic comment, but was otherwise content to eat his food.

A sharp whistle ended their conversation, though. Now the candidates were to file into the gymnasium, where the floor was folded back to reveal a large sand pit. Everyone was given a small black rectangle to hold during the run, it would track their distance and heart rate, relaying them back to the instructors' strange tablets. HTUV technology was leagues ahead of what civilians would use, to the point of skepticism. Lance had grown up exposed to many weird and wonderful gadgets, he didn't doubt the trackers could also accurately monitor those two things, maybe even rate of perspiration, or breathing. 

Two-thirds of the way through the four-mile circuit though, Lance was too distracted to worry about anything more than his sweaty hands and laboured breathing. Jesus fuck how many more of this does he have to do? If Wells could shut up about his form that’d be great _thanks_.

The run was concluded by Wells yelling at the panting candidates, saying their performance was pathetic, that if they wanted to make it a week into this course, they’d have to pick themselves up by their bootstraps and _do better_. Drop and do fifty, now. Dismissed.

Lance limped up the stairs to the shower room, his harsh breaths echoed through the concrete structure and his sneakers scuffed some of the steps. He thought his time was pretty good, too.

The next two hours is spent in the auditorium, preparation for the HTUV Aptitude Test. It was multiple choice, four hours long and determined a candidate’s area of specialisation. They were given a thick sheaf of papers for revision, and Lance can’t get his head around abstract reasoning. He was supposed to match an image to the pattern; only he couldn’t find a pattern in the first place, and you could only spend a minute on each question.

Lance finds little struggle with the logical analysis, HTUV procedure, moral quandaries, and the language battery sections. As long as he went with his guts, and doesn’t overthink the quantitative reasoning questions, he’ll be fine there.

Moral quandaries are more essay based and specific to a situation. There was one per exam and could appear in any of the sections. Lance likes wrapping his head around each one; putting himself in the agent’s shoes and imagining how he would react to these impossible situations.

It was recommended they take an hour or so out of their free time to study for the exam. Lance isn’t too sure he’d have the energy to focus long enough after the intense physical training. Today the sand pit was uncovered. In neat, ominous rows were telephone poles sawed in half. Wells was standing in the middle of the rows as the candidates filtered in. He wore a toothy grin that made Lance wince when he saw it.

“Groups of eight per pole. Fall behind or under-perform, and we put your group on Old Misery.” Wells gestures to a shorter, much thicker, pole near the back of the room. Lance had a feeling he doesn’t want to be put on that. “She’s four hundred pounds and hasn’t been sanded in years.”

Lance _really_ doesn’t want to be put on that.

Lance’s arms were burning. So was his back, his neck and his chest. And hands. Legs too, now that he thought about it. Heft the pole onto your left shoulder. Hold it above your head. Move it to your left shoulder. Switch out the lead person. Do not let the pole fall below your shoulders.

Lance hears a group to his left being shouted at to move onto Old Misery. Poor bastards. Their groans could be heard throughout the room. You had to continue the log exercises with Old Misery until the instructor decided it was time to hold her over your head for two minutes. Then you could move back to the regular telephone pole. But only if she was held for the full two minutes. If not, you restart the whole thing.

Lance can hear Moira’s muttered curses behind him. She’s been faring better than Lance would’ve predicted. Maybe MIT’s track and field training was more intense than he originally thought.

The training becomes a blur of strain, sweat and yelling.

_Feelin’ awful tired, huh Sterling? Maybe you should head home if this is too much for you._

_I think you’re ready to give up, candidate!_

_034 you’re letting this group down! How can you expect to keep your partner alive if you can’t hold up a fucking telephone pole with five people helping you._

_I’ve seen more effort from my arthritic grandmother when she’s tending to her flower garden. Fucking pathetic!_

_Your arms are shaking an awful lot boy, think you can handle another hour? I don’t think so._

Lance almost wants to cry with relief when the whistle sounds in three sharp tones. His group quickly drops the log into the sand. That doesn’t go down well with Wells, who immediately marches to his group and yells abuse at them for disrespecting HTUV property.

They had drop and give fifty while the rest of the group watch as punishment. Lance feels sweat gather and drip off his forehead as he struggles through the set, the eyes of the group burning into the back of his neck. Next time, he’ll set the log down so fucking tenderly it’ll ask when he’s free for drinks.

* * *

The next half hour is spent in one of the recreational areas picking out Moira’s splinters with tweezers. Beside them, Piotr reads over the moral questions with a dark-skinned woman named Rachel, who was holding her textbook in one hand while animatedly gesturing with the other.

“- And the thing about these ethical questions compared to the ones, say, the military would use is that we can use alternative solutions, given we can justify it. They want to see how we react to unconventional situations.”

Piotr nodded slowly, frowning at his own sheet.

“But how can you just make up an alternative route? Barely any information is given to us, what if you’re half-way through the essay before you realise the path you’ve taken is a dead end?”

“Then, like if the situation was real life, I’ll adapt to the situation, as we’re being trained to do.”

“I still think each question is too vague, and they barely give us any time to think up a proper response.”

Lance turned to the two and spoke up for the first time.

“That’s the whole point, though. The ethics question won’t really have a right or wrong answer, it’s how the instructors evaluate our personalities, to see if we’re a right fit to be agent.”

Rachel gestures to Lance in agreement, nodding her head. Piotr groans and looks up at the glass ceiling.

“I’m too dense for that sort of thinking.” He remarks.

Moira, rubbing her sore hands, pipes up from beside Lance.

“Even if you fail the moral part of the exam, there’s five other sections you can still do well in to bring the mark up. And HTUV can offer you a job working for them if you pass it. Another girl I know, Jesse, wants to get into Cryptonyms; she doesn’t think she can make field agent at all.”

“Shit, her too?” Rachel remarks, “there’s a couple other people I know who’ve been holding out for this exam so they can drop from field agent training, and still work for HTUV.”

That startles Lance, he'd never even considered dropping from the program. _What’s the point_ if he doesn’t make agent? Piotr stretches where he sits.

“I don’t think I’m suited for being an agent if this is just the first two weeks. Everything hurts, there’s a constant pressure on us to improve, and the instructors never let up. Is being an agent really worth all _this_?” He says.

Lance frowns but says nothing. Rachel shrugs.

“We survived the entrance exams and were accepted into the program in the first place. Survive another exam and we’re essentially guaranteed a place in HTUV, the organisation still needs more than just field agents to run the whole thing.”

Moira nods at that.

“Yeah, there’s no shame in dropping out. HTUV is more than the suits.” Moira nods at Piotr, smirking, “there’s the dry cleaners, for example.” Piotr huffs a laugh.

Lance half listens to the other three banter about what sub-division they’d best suit. He stared into the middle distance and, for the first time during training, he feels uncertainty settle in his chest.

Where’s he gonna go if he fails this exam? What happens if he wants to drop from the program? He’s only ever considered being Special Agent Lance Sterling, spy extraordinaire.

“You alright there, Lance?” Rachel asks him. Lance jolts up. “You looked a bit out of it.”

Lance gives a half smile to the group.

“Really? Aw I’m fine, just thinking.” 

“Thinking about what?” Asks Moira. Lance shrugs.

“All these people dropping. I’ve never even thought about signing the DOR forms, so I guess it’s surprising to hear others ready to drop already.” Piotr makes an unreadable expression. “Ever since I was a kid, I’ve wanted to be an HTUV agent.”

Rachel gives him a small smile.

“Honestly if anyone here could make it, it’d be you, Lance. Nothing seems to faze you, and you’re in great shape.” Lance smiles back.

Piotr quirks his head.

“How’d you know about HTUV when you were so young? Everyone I’ve talked to have only recently found out about it, including myself.” He says.

“My mom was an agent and dad worked in the technical labs.”

“Was?”

Lance purses his lips and sighs.

“She was KIA when I was seven, dad took an early retirement to raise me full time.”

Piotr’s eyebrows shoot into his hairline.

“Oh shit. Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it, man, you didn’t know.”

There was an awkwardness that hung in the air and they avoided looking at Lance. To escape the pitying looks Moira was shooting him, Lance retreats to his room and spends the rest of the free period trying to figure out abstract reasoning.

* * *

The week passes in a blur of physical conditioning and preparation for the exam. Lance finds he’s grown more muscular and can’t help but admire his new physique in the mirror. He mostly ignores Tristan during meals and classroom session, Tristan does the same to Lance.

The closer to Friday it gets, the more anxious Lance finds he becomes. The realisation that everything is becoming very real, and not just a daydream, is starting to hit home. It becomes more and more difficult to stamp down feelings of dread and panic. Physical training keeps his mind and body occupied, but when it’s time to settle down for the night Lance begins to feel the stress build up in him.

He’s comforted by the knowledge other people are possibly more stressed than him by the exam; though he feels sorry for the girl who broke down in tears the day before in the auditorium. Tristan seems too preoccupied with studying to notice Lance glancing at him, he has bags under his eyes now. Rachel picks at her cuticles and chews her nails more and more, sighing heavily during their group study sessions to banish her rising panic. Piotr tosses in his sleep.

Lance realises that the only person who doesn’t seem as affected by the looming exam is Moira. He'd asked her how she was still so calm. She responded with a tired blink and told Lance she stopped being stressed for exams half-way through her master's degree in MIT.

_It’s not worth the energy being so worried over this. Whatever happens, happens. Make sure you don’t run yourself into the ground there, Lance, you’re looking a bit rough._

* * *

On the day of the HTUV Aptitude Exam, one hundred and fourteen candidates quietly filter into the large auditorium, HTUV laptops sit at intervals along the rows. Each neatly labelled with the candidate’s ID number. Lance sits near the front. Instructors pace through the room, watching for any cheating. The quietness of the hall makes Lance overly conscious of his breathing. His palms are sweaty and his mind racing. He closes his eyes and lets out a long breath.

He’s got this. _He’s got this._

Four hours pass both slowly and quickly; an hour skips by in a blink while a minute is dragged along by the hair. Lance finds himself entering a trance-like state at the half-way mark; read the question, click the answer. Finish the page. Look at clock, five minutes pass. Repeat. Start the new section. The light from the computer is starting to burn his eyes, or maybe it’s because he’s not blinking enough. Lance arches his back to crack it, never looking away from the screen.

If anyone were to ask Lance what any of the questions were and what he answered, he wouldn’t be able to tell them. He vaguely remembers the moral question being about choosing between the life of your partner and the lives of one-hundred prisoners, guilty of various crimes.

Lance stumbles out of the auditorium in a daze, making a beeline to the cafeteria. He plops down at a table where Piotr, Moira, Rachel and a woman with short blonde hair eventually join him. The blonde is introduced by Rachel as Jesse. All five of them have dull expressions and slouch in their seats. Lance picks at his food, he hasn’t found his appetite yet. Jesse looks over Lance’s shoulder and gestures to someone to sit with them.

Lance is vaguely annoyed when he sees Tristan sit down beside Jesse, but Tristan only seems intent on finishing his meal and responds in grunts to any questions directed at him. Lance half listens to his friends talk about their answers to the moral quandary. He notices Tristan frown when Lance gives his reasoning as to why the partner should be sacrificed, as they knew what they were getting into when they became a secret agent. Nothing becomes of it, to Lance’s disappointment. He half wanted a confrontation to take his mind off the aptitude exam.

* * *

The results for the exams were due to be posted on Monday. The candidates were given a more relaxed physical conditioning schedule with more free time for the weekend. In that free time, they were given their first chance to phone home. Lance called his dad on both Saturday and Sunday, where they talked about his training. Both of Lance’s parent went through the selection, his dad dropping out during the fourth phase and his mom completing all five phases to become a field agent.

Growing up after his mom’s death was tough. Yes, his dad was there for him, but Lance felt like he wasn't really _there_ sometimes. His dad joking and reminiscing about his time during the HTUV training process was so different to the man who would look at Lance with poorly hidden grief. From what Lance had seen, in the few photos Joy let them keep of her, he takes after his mom.

Hearing his dad happy restores some of the resolve that had been slowly draining out of Lance. It reminds him how important becoming an HTUV agent was to him. A warm smile slowly creeps up his face.

They talk until Lance’s hour was up, leaving on the promise he’ll call again tomorrow around the same time.

_I’ll hear from you soon, Lance. I love you._

_Bye dad, love you too._

The weekend is blessedly long. The PT sessions are less rigorous, and Lance feels lighter after talking with his dad again. According to the older Sterling, Phase I is the most important and longest of the five. It establishes the majority of a candidate’s training and establishes the expectations HTUV has for an agent.

After the examinations, the candidates will be assigned one of three field agent specialties, and a foreign language to learn based off of their language aptitude scores. Both these sortings will follow them through the entirety of training; so Lance’s dad _hopes he studied hard for the exam, this is a very important part of the course._

Lance feels like a teenager waiting for his SAT score all over again, instead of a trainee secret agent in an underwater base.

It’s when he finishes his call on the Sunday does Lance hear a muffled argument in an adjacent booth. At first Lance can’t make out what is said, then he hears a familiar voice rise in volume.

“Fuck off then. Don’t know why I bloody bothered.” Lance winces at the sound of the phone being slammed onto the receiver. Suddenly the booth door is swung open and Tristan stomps out, furiously scrubbing at his eyes. He sees Lance and freezes. They stare at each other, alone in the hallway. Tristan’s shoulders drop. “Great. What do you want.”

“I- What? Dude I just got out of a booth.” Lance sputters, holding up his hands defensively. Tristan scowls at him, huffs, then turns on his heel and walks down the hallway. Lance feels a strong sense of déjà vu watching his retreating back.

He doesn’t know why he glares at Lance when they meet eyes or why he does his best to ignore his presence during training. Lance can’t read his mind and he sure as hell won’t get anywhere asking him what’s with the treatment.

But hey, if Tristan’s going to be an obstinate ass to him, Lance is happy to reciprocate. Hell, sometimes he purposely prods the guy to get a rise out of him. It’s pretty funny seeing how red his ears can get.

His group of acquaintances have their energy back to them. The results on Monday may hang in the back of their minds, but the exam itself is done, a miracle in and of itself. Lance spends most of his free time listening to music and reading some weird high fantasy novel he borrowed from Rachel. It’s almost nine-hundred pages long and most of the names have random apostrophes in them for no reason. But Lance is charmed by the magic system and main characters; the author weaves an impressive story that keeps Lance distracted during the long hours.

No one sleeps on the Sunday evening. Lance is sitting on one of the common rooms with his usual group. He’s a quarter through the book, but his favourite character died in the previous chapter, so Lance’s pace has slowed. Rachel and Moira are playing chess while Jesse and Piotr chat quietly. There are other candidates in this room, but Lance doesn’t see Tristan.

There is hushed talking and laughter as games are played, stories are told, and tea is brewed at the kitchenette. Lance asked a man named David to brew him some earl grey while he was up there. David had worked as a barista in his family’s café in LA and would often offer to make up a hot drink for people who asked (and also donated any books or cassette tapes to him).

The quiet air of the room is broken by Moira loudly sighing.

“I don’t know about all of youse, but I am _jittering_ with nerves.” There’s a loud groan of agreement that reverberates throughout the room.

“I almost vomited this morning, dude.” Pipes a voice from the back.

“I haven’t had a full night’s sleep since Wednesday.” Says another.

Everyone’s voices rose at one, talking over each other and their anxieties, while simultaneously sympathising with their neighbour. It was the loudest the recreational room had been. Moira stands on the couch and claps her hands together.

“Right. Does anyone have something that can play music?” There was confused murmuring. “So we can have a gallows party for the results tomorrow. This may be the last night some of us will be here, so let’s have a last hurrah.

We’re not allowed alcohol, but we’ve got a kettle and coffee maker, so may as well have something warm to prepare for our big morning.” The small crowd sounded favourable to it. She pointed at Lance, “I’ve seen you with an MP3 player now and then, go get it.” Lance looks at Moira with a raised brow before heaving himself off the old fabric couch and to his room.

When he comes back, the room was filled with people. David had managed to commandeer the kitchenette and, strangely enough, people were lining up to get a drink. He calls Lance over and places a brown, ceramic mug in his hands. Lance thanks him and breathes in the aromatic tea. Then he makes his way to Moira, plopping the player in her outstretched palm.

“What songs do you have on this?” she says, turning the player over and running her thumb over the scuffed edges.

“Got some Mariah Carey, Janet Jackson, and Aerosmith, among others.”

“What, no Elton?”

Lance shrugs.

“Eh, not my thing.”

Moira tuts.

“Michael Jackson?”

“Maybe?”

Somewhat satisfied, Moira turns and walks up to a woman sitting on a table with a set of speakers.

Lance was disappointed to find his seat on the couch was taken by someone else. He grabbed the book her was reading and made his way to where Jesse and Rachel stood, by the island counter. Rachel had a blue mug cradled in her hands while Jesse sipped at her coffee from a thermos. They were talking, heads close together, separating when Jesse noticed Lance approaching and nudged Rachel. Rachel smiled at Lance and turned so she was facing both of them.

They talk about about nothing in particular as a Michael Jackson song begins to play.

“Huh," remarks Lance, "guess I do have some MJ songs.”

Over at the speakers, Moira was passionately mouthing the words to _Billy Jean_. He makes eye contact with the woman next to her. He shrugs in response to her bemused smile. Jesse makes to move, setting down her thermos.

“I see Tristan. Can you watch my drink, Rach?”

“Don’t have much of a choice.” Mutters Rachel as Jesse walks off without waiting for an answer.

Lance watches her walk up to Tristan, who was lingering off in the edges of the crowd. He can’t hear what they’re saying over the music, but he sees Tristan give Jesse a half smile in greeting. Then Tristan grimaces when Jesse says something, gesticulating for emphasis. Tristan looks down and rubs the back of his neck. Then he catches Lance watching them, to which he gives Lance a nasty scowl and says something to Jesse, then leaves. Jesse looks back to Lance with a concerned frown, then follows Tristan out of the room.

“That guy really doesn’t like you.” Rachel notes. Lance makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat.

“They seem awful familiar, did they know each other before this?” Lance asks, eyes fixed on the empty spot where Jesse and Tristan were standing.

“No, they’re roommates. I imagine Jesse’s managed to get Tristan to open up. From what I know of him, he’s very private.”

“Why does Jesse look so worried for him?”

“No idea, maybe family shit by the sounds of it." Rachel shoots him a look. "Don't go following them, I doubt either would be happy on you listening in on a private conversation.”

Lance sighs and they move on the talk about other things, unrelated to Australians and spy training.

Rachel grew up in the Bronx and was taught how to play the piano from her grandfather while her parents worked.

Lance’s dad had gotten a job as a science teacher after his mom’s death. On Friday nights Lance would set up mock obstacle courses on the football fields to prepare for the HTUV entrance exams.

Eventually the party dies down after a heartfelt rendition of Don't Stop Believing, and when the coffee maker ran out of beans, much to everyone’s dismay. People begin filtering out to their rooms. Lance disconnects his MP3 player from the speakers and says goodnight to Moira, and the other woman, Ramira, before going to bed himself.

He almost forgot results were being posted in six hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gonna be real you you guys, i had to google what songs were popular in '99 because i was born in 02 lmaoo
> 
> tristan may have some stuff going on at home :/ poor dude  
> it's nice to see lance making friends, hope nothing happens in the future that estranges them from him :-)  
> just peppering a little bit of foreshadowing here and there, don't mind me  
> so, in come Moira, Piotr, Rachel and Jesse, they each have their parts to play but Lance and Tristan have center stage
> 
> Also i stole the aptitude test sections from the UCAT exam, it deserves to be plagiarised a little lmao
> 
> also, almost every instructor in the selection course are either active or ex-field agents


	4. Phase I - (part iii)

Monday greets a nauseous Lance with the klaxons sounding for the first time in three days. Lance won’t say he missed them. All candidates are shuffled into the auditorium where they sit in the same seats as they did on Friday. Lance wipes his sweaty palms on his thighs and watches instructor Wells walk along the front of the room.

Sealed envelopes are handed out with their candidate numbers stamped on the front with the order to not open them yet. When Lance was handed his, he felt like he was holding a lead weight. Wells settles at the front wall and held his hands behind his back.

“You will now open your results forms.” He said, peering at the candidates. The room’s nervous quiet was punctured by the sound of tearing paper. With trembling fingers Lance joined in the cacophony, dragging his thumb along the lip. He unfolded his paper and read.

And then read it again.

One more time to make sure; nerves can mess with your reading comprehension…

**Candidate: Lance A. Sterling**

**Candidate ID: 034**

**HTUV Aptitude Examination - Blue Marsh Compound, PA**

**THESE RESULTS ARE PRIVATE AND ONLY TO BE DISCLOSED TO THE CANDIDATE.**

**FAILURE TO COMPLY WITH HTUV REGULATION WILL RESULT IN LEGAL ACTION.**

**Abstract Reasoning -** 792/900

 **Moral Quandaries Essay Question -** 35/40

 **HTUV Procedure –** 235/240

 **Logical Thought and Decision Making -** 814/900

 **Quantitative Deduction** **-** 824/900

 **Language Battery Test -** 103/130

**TOTAL SCORE:** 2803/3110

** PASS **

**OVERALL RANKING:** 6/114

**CAT II LANGUAGE PROFICIENCY**

**RECOMMENDED SPECIALISATION:** OPERATOR

Sixth. Out of one hundred and fourteen people. Lance blinked and read the page over again. _How's that for good, Tristan?_ Lance feels a laugh wheeze out of him.

Lance doesn’t hear muttered curses and choked sobs from the candidates who failed, who will leave on the coaches that day and never work for HTUV. He’s too focused on the ego-boosting slip of paper to notice that the person sitting next to him is one of those twenty-six.

The projector is fired up, crisp blue images appear on the large white wall behind Wells. His sharp features are illuminated in cyan. In the back of the room, the auditorium doors are opened.

“To all candidates that failed, my condolences. Please exit this room, you are no longer privy to our methods. Instructors will guide you through the leaving procedures. Gather your belongings and contact whomever you require. If any issues arise, please let staff know.” Wells nods and Lance sees around a quarter of the original group quietly rise from their seats and leave. Some are crying. Lance does not see any of his friends in that group and feels somewhat guilty at the relief that blooms in him.

When all failed candidates leave, the auditorium doors are shut again. A heavy silence hangs in the air.

“To all candidates that passed, congratulations. You’ve cleared the first hurdle of many. Keep this up and you might have a chance of becoming agents.” Wells gives a smirk and Lance sees his eyes shine with bemusement.

“On your results form a specialisation has been assigned to you. This has been determined through your performance during physical training, and aptitude test and the entrance exam. Throughout the course there will be specific times where you will be trained in your specialisation.” Wells presses a button on a remote in his hand. The screen flicks to a slide with three columns each with a separate title and bullet points underneath each.

“If you earned a noticeably high score in the language battery and were noted to be particularly charismatic, or had skills in computer technology, you will be assigned to communications.

"If you were well achieved in quantitative deduction and abstract reasoning, as well as above average intelligence and reflexes, your specialty is engineering.

“If you've shown accomplishment in physical prowess, decision making, and gave a very convincing argument in the morals essay, you are to study under the role of operator.”

Wells continues the power-point outlining the next ten weeks. From this point onwards any DORs can be recruited to work at HTUV in a different profession, should they wish to. The last week of Phase I was something Wells called Limbo; a five-day event where the candidates would have an overall four hours’ sleep, will run over two hundred miles, and complete tasks and physical exercises for twenty hours a day.

In the build up to Limbo, all candidates will be trained in first aid, hand-to-hand combat, marksmanship, scuba diving, and be introduced to HTUV technology and how to operate them. Their specialisation training will also begin. Their physical conditioning will become gradually more intense throughout the ten weeks, too.

Looking at how _much_ they had to prepare for and do, Lance felt small. Like he was being swallowed up by this big wave and all he could do was try to keep salt water from going up his nose. Then he looked at his results, at his ranking, and felt more anchored in his place as a high achieving candidate.

He could do this. He has to.

* * *

The rest of the day was free, with only a PT session before lunch. Afterwards, in the cafeteria, Lance sits with his friends, all of them sweaty from the four-mile run and obstacle course.

“So, what specialties did all of youse get?” Moira asked the group. Piotr had grunted engineering around a mouthful of food. Jesse was in communications, the same as Moira. When Lance mentioned he was in operator, Rachel gave him a high-five, because so was she.

“I heard from someone sitting behind you, Lance, that you’d gotten a really high score.” Moira says, in a tone that implied she wanted Lance to extrapolate.

“Oh, y’know, something like twenty-eight hundred.”

Piotr makes a choking sound and Jesse lets out a whistle.

“Jesus fuck. You must’ve gotten high in the rankings with that.” Moira exclaims. Lance winks and shoots a smile. Moira huffs a laugh and calls him a bastard.

They continue with their meal. If any of them feel put out or discouraged by his result, Lance doesn’t notice.

Specialist training tends to find itself after The Grinder and breakfast; all to separate classrooms. If they’re anything like the operator room, it’s smaller than the main auditorium. Lance’s first class was taken by an instructor he’s only seen on the fringes of their physical training. Simply observing the candidates. They speak in a silky, confident voice that carries to the back of the room. They hold themselves like what Lance imagines an agent would.

They introduce themselves as Special Agent Olokadana, the operator class instructor. The two-hour time slot passes with an outline of the course: when operator training would take place, and how they would track their progress.

Olokadana spends the rest of the class giving a brief history of HTUV; how it was formed during World War II by the OSS to sabotage the Axis Powers, and establish intelligence bases across the globe. They gained recognition when providing aid to the Russians during the Third Reich’s march into their lands. as well as developing special weapons that could be concealed as everyday items at a moments’ notice. It was during the Cold War, after the Berlin Blockade was lifted, did HTUV become completely separate from the CIA, which replaced OSS in '47. 

Weapons facilities were built across the globe, primarily near NATO countries, as it was still an American organisation. The first prototype suits and surveillance equipment were invented in these hidden bases, scattered across the world; in submerged islands, in bustling metropolises, in ramshackle towns and undiscovered islands. Most of these facilities were abandoned when HTUV established the Washington Monument HQ after the collapse of the USSR. The R&D lab there was more than suited to handle the development of their gadgets.

When they were dismissed and lunch was eaten, the candidates were sent to their first scuba diving lesson. It was held in a large pool area on the ground floor. The first hour was spent familiarising the group to HTUV scuba gear. Conventional equipment had a thick vest that would fill with air to control one’s buoyancy and a thick cylinder strapped to the vest for the oxygen supply.

HTUV diving equipment was much more sleek and meant to be concealed under a suit. The goggles had a thin pane of glass between the polycarbonate lenses that acted as an advanced HUD, supplying the agent with necessary information. Instead of a conventional air supply, the HTUV gear used rebreather technology. The rebreather had two tubes connecting the regulator to a closed-circuit electronic rebreather that slung around the wearer’s shoulders in a rectangular container.

The drysuit was much thinner than non HTUV types, but still kept the water out. It could retract and engage along a suit’s magnetic guidelines. When retracted it's housed in a small compartment, in the same container that houses the circuit. Because none of the candidates had earned their suits, let alone been fitted for them, they had to put on their gear manually. The same treatment was given to the thin silicon fins, which could retract into the sleek HTUV Oxfords.

Apparently, a smaller circuit was being developed so they could make a mask that consisted of the goggles, regulator, and rebreather, with the new circuit being attached to the back of the mask. Making it easier to conceal and store.

The instructor taking the lesson was a Kiwi who called herself ‘Frog’. Her voice echoed across the pool area as she explained how the rebreather worked. Most of the electronics and chemistry went over Lance’s head but her wild arm waving kept him engaged enough to understand the big no-no’s: never ascend too quickly, keep your breathing steady, don’t mix the tubes.

The first lesson was spent being taught how to evaluate and set up the equipment (and how to do the same in the water), how to clear their masks, and how to aid a fellow diver if complications arise with the gear. Then they spent time swimming a foot or so under the surface, getting used to controlling the buoyancy and using the rebreather.

Lance had never scuba-dived before, the rebreather’s weightlessness and the warmth from the drysuit made him feel weightless. He liked the freedom that it provided.

* * *

The weeks pass, not that Lance is fully aware of it. To him it all became an impression of physical strain, intense classes on HTUV history, procedure and technology, and his specialisation training focusing on interpersonal skills and the psychology behind manipulation.

He chose Italian out of the six offered. While he could’ve picked a higher category language with his result, Italian was more interesting. Turns out learning Italian also meant learning the regional dialects, of which there are over thirty, and the culture. One country didn’t need to hog all that culture, honestly.

The candidates are given the foundation for first-aid, gun safety and maintenance, hand-to-hand combat, general college-level education, and basic driving skills; most candidates from cities had never learned. There were a couple times they were taken top side to learn how to make improvised shelters, start fires in the rain, and how to avoid detection in the woods. As well as rifle proficiency and scuba diving in the lake.

Sparring began a week or so after results. The candidates would be shown a technique, a counter to the technique, and then spend half an hour with alternating partners practicing what they had just learned. It ended with a sparring match between two candidates at a time in front of the other eighty-eight. When instructor Wells called the end of each match, he would announce a winner and have someone from the crowd analyse their fight.

Lance had been paired with Tristan on the fourth week. They were evenly matched. Both with prior experience in combat, but Lance has a feeling Tristan didn’t learn in a ring like he did. Lance was more technical, waiting for the right moment and striking with precision. Tristan seemed more comfortable rushing his opponent, forcing them to react rashly and open their defences. His punches _hurt_. Lance thought he had him by the two-minute mark, when he feinted and threw a sharp left hook in an attempt to catch him off guard.

It was when Tristan caught his arm and used the momentum to throw him over his back, onto the mat, did Lance realise he was a leftie. Wells called the end of the match with Tristan the winner. He called on a candidate Lance didn’t know. She explained that while Lance was wearing Tristan down, he accidentally played into Tristan’s strengths by going for his dominant side.

Which was great to hear, winded on the mats. Lance’ll keep that in mind next time he’s pitted against a vaguely angry, left-handed Australian. 

* * *

Sometimes Tristan sits with Lance and his friends during meal breaks, usually sitting beside Jesse. Sometimes he’ll add into the conversation with a dry remark but mostly he focuses on eating, similar to how Piotr was in the beginning. Rachel manages to ease information out of him from time to time: He got 115 on the language battery test; he’s studying Japanese. He’s in the engineering specialisation; they’re being taught vehicle, and HTUV gadget maintenance and repair.

Sometimes he’ll tell a funny story or a witty remark, which makes Lance’s friends laugh. Lance doesn’t know why but he feels a pang in his chest when that happens. He doesn’t understand why Tristan’s still so prickly towards him; any time Lance makes a quip from something Tristan says, he’s met with silence or a nasty glare. It’s beginning to grate on his nerves. Do his friends notice it?

Then again, Lance’s remarks can come off as rude, maybe. Or judgemental, probably.

Usually both, at the same time, but Lance isn’t the best at recognising that just yet.

* * *

Numbers begin to drop. Lance knows of two people from his specialisation that have sent their DoR forms in and left on the morning coach after handing back their ID cards. He’s heard the other classes have seen the same thing. It feels strange that it wasn’t during anything intensive.

Lance is tired most days from the physical and mental strain, but it’s not unbearable. He worries if his friends are near their breaking points. He knows Jesse’s doing better than she thought she could, and Rachel has been maintaining high standards throughout the course. It’s Moira and Piotr he worries about. Both were average in their results and physical fitness. 

The HTUV doesn’t want average people to be their field agents.

Lance wonders if they’re aware of it. Moira’s good at hiding things with a smile and Piotr has always had a morose expression. Maybe he notices strain in Moira’s grin and a tightness in Piotr’s shoulders. Maybe he knows Piotr pulls out his DoR form when he thinks Lance is sleeping, and stares at it until putting it away again.

By week ten there is an uneven number of people. Wells adapts to this by creating group scenarios agents may encounter during a fight. He shows how one can fend off two attackers at once using the environment and unconventional weapons; as well as breaking from choke holds and any sort of arm or leg bars.

Lance finds he enjoys those, the acrobatics and tactics needed to pull off some of those manoeuvres goes well with his own fighting style. Tristan gets yelled at, at one point by Wells because he has a habit of grabbing the person behind him and _heaving_. The guy’s strong and it usually work in freeing him, but it’s not what’s been taught and it won’t always work.

* * *

Week twelve is the final chance to prepare (or drop) before Limbo. Then Phase I is over. Lance tells his dad, one afternoon, how strange it feels for so much time to have passed already. His dad chuckles warmly, saying that’s how it usually goes. He wishes Lance good luck for Limbo. He survived it, so could Lance. Just remember that it’s a week of pain for a once in a lifetime career. And no matter what happens; he can always come home.

Lance notices that Tristan is more prickly than normal after he makes a phone call every Saturday. He wonders who manages to get Tristan riled up like that; and why he keeps calling them. It probably doesn’t help that Lance acts more like a little shit than normal, but he can’t help it. He sees Tristan and wants to get a rise out of him. Show him how much of a kid he can really be.

It’s during the final full-group class that reality seems to set in for the candidates. Wells, who normally doesn’t appear in the auditorium, strode into the room just as the instructor was mid-sentence. The instructor whips her head to Wells with an annoyed expression, until she realises it’s Wells. She nods and backs off, sitting on a chair at the side of the room.

Wells stands in the same pose as he had during results day; legs shoulder width apart and hands clasped behind his back.

“Sixteen hours from now, you will all enter Limbo.” He starts, pausing for effect. “Taken from Navy SEALs and Marine Corps training exercises; Limbo will start in the early hours of Monday straight through to dusk on Sunday. This will be the most challenging physical and mental obstacle any of you will have faced; _we guarantee it_. We are not here to coddle, nurture or guide children. We’re separating the wheat from the chaff.

“Special agents are the pinnacle of what HTUV offers to the world. We will not accept average. Even above average. This test is here to find the best of the best and many people I see here are only average. Drop out now before you hurt yourself. The edge of Hell will not be merciful, and neither will the rest of the world. The people we protect think us nothing more than tools of imperialism. The people we protect them from would like nothing more than to skin us with a rusted knife."

Wells’ gaze rakes across the crowd, pausing to glare at certain candidates. His eyes skates over Lance, not that it surprises Lance.

"If you can't get through a controlled, physical challenge, how can you survive weeks on a mission, days of waiting, or hours of torture? Lives hang in the balance, can you really handle that kind of pressure?"

He stands in silence, letting his words sink in, before leaving the room with heavy footfalls. Worried whispers fill the room and the instructor lets the class go early, knowing she’s lost their focus.

It’s as Lance is leaving the auditorium when Jesse tugs at his arm.

“Moira told me Piotr wants to talk to us about something. Meet up in the rec room by your dorm, I’ll let Rachel and Tristan know.” Without waiting for a reply, she went back into the crowd to search for them.

Lance sat beside Moira on the couches in the rec room. The small group taking up a semi-circle on the couch and chairs dragged from the island counter. Piotr looks at the open faces of his friends, sighs, and takes out his Drop on Request form. It’s filled in, from what Lance can see. Moira looks between the form in Piotr’s hands and his face, with a concerned expression.

“Piotr…”

“I’m dropping from this course and applying for a placement in the technical labs.” Piotr announces after a heavy sigh, “I’ve already got a bachelor’s in automotive engineering, so I’ll just have to go through an apprenticeship scheme to get a handle of HTUV gear.”

At first the group don’t know how to react; they weren’t too sure what they were hearing.

“Are you sure? You don’t even know how bad Limbo is, you’ve gotten this far _only_ to give up?” Moira’s voice is laced with panic, gradually becoming louder and more accusing. Rachel smacks Moira’s arm, looking at Piotr with a concerned expression. Piotr is hunched over, head hanging.

“I think Moira’s just frustrated for you. We’re almost done this phase, it’s a lot of work that’ll be for nothing.” Says Rachel.

Tristan watches Piotr with a carefully neutral expression, hands clasped, as Piotr rubs his face and sighs.

“It’s not just because of Limbo. I barely passed the aptitude test. I just don’t think I’m capable enough to be an agent. Look at all of you, you’re what HTUV are looking for. Not me.

“Wells’ speech only made me realise I should’ve dropped right after the exam. I'm not suited for that lifestyle and the only reason I’m still here is because I thought if I stuck out a little longer, I’d get a better position. Now I just want this to be over.”

Moira looks distraught, she opens her mouth to speak but then shuts it. Jesse takes her place.

“If that’s what you think is best, man.”

Piotr nods to Jesse. An awkward silence hangs in the air. Rachel gives Piotr a weak smile, she thinks he’s capable of more than this. Lance isn’t sure what to say. Any words of encouragement would only ring hollow, and Lance knows it’s no use trying to convince Piotr of anything else.

“You’re smart, Piotr.” Says Tristan, for the first time. Everyone’s heads snap to Tristan, he keeps eye contact with Piotr. “HTUV needs people like you to make ridiculous, physics defying gadgets so agents can save the world in one day.”

Piotr looks surprised for a second, before grinning and huffing a laugh. Tristan grins as well.

“Thanks, McFord. Guess you were paying attention to my ramblings.”

“Hmph. ‘Course I was.”

Piotr smiles. It becomes sad before melting away. He smacks the DOR form onto his palm.

“I just wanted you all to know. Before I left.”

Piotr leaves that night. For the first time in twelve weeks, Lance sleeps in a room all to himself. The absence of snoring and shuffling is difficult to fall asleep to.

* * *

His restless snoozing is disrupted by ringing klaxons. Instead of a constant drone, this sounds more like an air raid siren. A voice screeches from the intercom to get dressed and head down to the gymnasium for the beginning of Limbo.

Lance is still half asleep, dressed in his blue HTUV tracksuit and already half-way through a four-mile conditioning run. The candidates had all rushed to the track; tense and anticipating the worst. Whatever that could be.

The instructors were more relentless than normal. Spraying the candidates with hoses and yelling abuse at them as they continued through The Grinder and run. With no breaks the candidates were to go through an obstacle course that ended with a twelve foot climb up scaffolding and shimmying down a rope to the bottom. Any below the average time had to go through it again until they made it. Lance’s chest burned from the parallel bars and his legs struggled to hold his weight up the tower and down the rope. But he finished the course with thirty-four seconds to spare. Hilarious.

He sees Tristan get through the course without shouting from the instructors; he must’ve cleared the time. Moira is not as lucky. Her head is hanging and mouth open as she gulps air. She doesn’t seem phased by the instructor’s crowing, simply getting into line to go through the course again.

After the O-Course Lance got into a group of eight, with Jesse, Rachel, and Tristan, for log training. Someone in the back isn’t pulling their weight and the log almost drops, smacking onto Tristan’s shoulder. He grunts and heaves the log up to pick up the other candidate’s slack. An instructor comes to yell at them, saying they’re letting down their group. The candidate sounds half delirious as they stutter out a response. Must be exhausted from lack of food and sleep. Lance remembers it was dawn when Limbo started.

The first five hours of Limbo drag. Lance feels sweat roll down his back in thick pearls. They’re going through another Grinder. The water shot from the hoses have created a large mud puddle in the centre of the room where Lance realises a dip was built into. They do Mud Flats for what feels an eternity; walking on the spot in mud that goes up to Lance’s shin. He’s spent more time looking at the ground, focusing on getting through the exercises himself he hasn’t had time to look at how other candidates have been doing. During log PT the delirious candidate dropped out after hyperventilating and almost collapsing. They were taken to a medic, where they rested and signed their form. They were immediately escorted from the gym.

At some point Wells’ blows the whistle in three sharp trills, signalling the end of a five-hour slog. The gym stinks of body odor and vomit. Lance’s pants come out in shrill, quick breaths. Just get through this. Just get through this.

They eat in the gym. MREs are handed out and the candidates eat them cold. Lance chats with his friends.

“Just gotta,” Moira pauses, blinking slowly. “Gotta hold out. For however many hours…”

“One hundred-fourteen hours, if you count this hour we have to eat.” Says Tristan, his elbows on his knees. There’s a joint-effort groan from the rest of the group.

“This’ll end, eventually. Just have to hold out until then. Easy.” Lance remarks.

“Oh, fuck off.” Says Jesse, who’s laying on the ground. Lance laughs. Then regrets it, laughing hurts right now.

The candidates are moved to the pool, barefoot. Maybe it’s because Lance is drenched in sweat, but the room feels noticeably cooler. Frog is standing beside Wells, they’re going over whatever’s been written on the clipboard. Then Frog looks up to the candidates and gives a shark-like grin.

The ‘warm up’ was treading water for fifteen minutes. That would’ve been easy if the pool hadn’t been set to freezing temperatures. When Lance first jumped into the pool the cold knocked the breath out of him. His toes were numb, and his thighs stung from the chill. Multiple curses are shouted out by candidates also shocked by the cold.

To desensitise the candidates to warzones and active duty, realistic gunfire, explosions, and screams ring out of the intercoms at ear ringing volumes. Lance’s head swims from the cold and noise, he continues to tread water steadily.

Frog announces the end of the tread and calls the candidates out of the water. They go through push ups, sit ups and crunches while being hosed by the instructors again. The water is lukewarm, but to a freezing Lance it may as well be a hot shower. Then Frog gleefully yells,

“Back in the water, cohort! Think that was the end of it? Into your skivvies, let’s see some skin!”

Unsurprisingly, the pool feels colder without Lance’s tracksuit layer. Lance fights to keep his breathing steady, to keep panic at bay as his kicks become sluggish and keeping his head above the water more of a struggle. One candidate is fished out of the pool when a circling instructor notices him falling under the water and not surfacing. He’s checked over and when he comes back to consciousness, gets back into the pool.

Lance’s teeth are chattering when the fifteen minutes are called. He heaves himself out of the pool with heavy arms and barely gets through the first set of sit-ups. He sees two candidates signing DOR forms in the corner of his eye.

They’re sent topside, to the same secluded area they were taught how to make improvised shelters. Now the area has been converted into a muddy, barbed wire filled assault course. The candidates are given dummy HTUV assault rifles. Lance’s tired arms and numb fingers struggle to hold the dummy rifle as he crawls, climbs, jumps and sprints through the course. His vision is beginning to darken around the edges but he’s holding onto that damn gun. He shoots when the instructors tell him to, scanning an area for enemies and firing in short bursts to maintain accuracy.

* * *

He thinks it’s been four hours when their next break comes up. But Lance is too tired to really tell. Right now, one minute feels more like thirty. Glucose strips are handed out to give candidates their strength. Lance half listens to others speak.

“I can’t do this.” Moira, exhausted.

“Fuck off, ‘course you can.” Tristan, exasperated. They must’ve had this conversation before.

“You fuck off.” Moira again, forceful.

“Both of you shut up.” Rachel, annoyed.

They go through the course again. Lance’s boot catches on the other and he face-plants into the mud. He quickly gets up, no time to relish in the moment of rest.

There gets to be a point where Lance hears the instructors yelling at him, but it doesn’t register. All stimulus that isn’t the current exercise (now, rope climbing) is irrelevant. Sometimes he’s yelled at in Italian, to which he hurriedly responds in the same language. But he has to do an extra climb up the rope because he used the wrong dialect. Goddamn Italians.

Everything becomes a blur; they’re moved from the gym to the pool to topside, then back again. Lance doesn’t feel his limbs, more that he’s fairly sure he was born with two arms and two legs. A sliver of his mind keeps sharp, answering random knowledge and maths questions asked by passing instructors. Attention to detail is stressed, Lance tries to keep aware of any trick the instructors might pull to catch him off guard.

The candidates are given two hours to sleep standing up. Lance didn't think it was physically possible. Learn something new everyday, he figures.

* * *

Somehow, somehow, the end draws near. Wells gives three thrill whistles and announces the final challenge: King of the Ring. Win once to continue onto Phase II. Anything goes, just get the other competitor out of the ring. Everyone gets two tries to continue.

Wells singles out fifteen candidates, telling them they’re the lowest performing in the group. They will be the kings and have to win three times in a row to prove themselves and continue. Lance’s heart skips a beat when he notices Moira is with them. Her face wears a tight expression, lips drawn thin.

Lance wins on his first try, catching his opponent’s arm and flipping her over his back and onto the outside of the ring.

He goes to stand with the six other winners, only one being a king. Tristan wins his fight by taunting the king, holding back until they charged. Then he planted his feet, grabbed the king, and twisted so he could throw them out of the ring in a brutal takedown. The loser hit the ground with an audible thump.

Lance felt a pit settle in his gut when Moira steps into the ring, grimly determined. He doesn’t know if he wants to watch his friend be humiliated like this. Moira’s not a fighter, more a tactician.

Lance is surprised when, in her first fight, she rushes her opponent, punching them in the guts, between their ribs, and hooking an arm under their's. She kneels down and grabs the back of their knee, throwing them out of the ring, her opponent still winded from the first punch. Lance hears someone exclaim holy shit, and he agrees.

Moira seems to gain more confidence from her first fight. But it’s slowly whittled away by her second, this opponent not underestimating her. Both are exhausted from the month-long week. Both know they have to win to continue.

Moira was almost beat by the next challenger, who catches her arm as she swings at them, trying to put it in an arm bar and force her to walk out. Instead, Moira twists away and then gets in close. She gives a quick punch to their side, between the hips and ribs, then giving a quick kick to the side of their knee. She pushes them and their upper body falls outside the ring.

That fight was longer, more grappling and close combat. Lance can see from where he was standing how tired she in. _One more fight Moira, you’ve got this._ That is, Lance thought that until Jesse walked into the ring.

Jesse, who was a head taller than Moira and had much more muscle to her. Oh no. Lance sees a flash of uncertainty across Moira’s face, only to be quickly replaced with a look of determination.

They circle each other, gauging and waiting for the other to make a move. Moira jolts forward with a sharp punch, Jesse’s fists shoot up to her head, blocking the punch and throwing it to the side. Moira follows with another punch from her left hand to Jesse’s gut, which she sidesteps. Moira presses further, trying to get a punch or kick to connect, Jesse blocking or dodging her strikes. She doesn't even try to counter-attack.

Moira’s breath is beginning to run ragged, while Jesse is still lightly bouncing on the balls of her feet, unbothered. Moira snarls, trying to get a hold of Jesse to throw her over her hip, but Jesse twists out of her grasp, delivering a solid punch to Moira’s temple. Moira stumbles, catching herself on her knee and staggering back up.

Jesse blows out a breath and rushes Moira, getting an arm under Moira’s armpit and trying to heave her onto her back for a throw. Moira flails her way off Jesse, somehow knocking Jesse off balance. But instead of separating, Moira clutches onto the collar of Jesse’s shirt with her fist. Then, using her free hand to bunch up the rest of Jesse’s collar, drags it behind her and effectively cutting off Jesse's blood supply to her brain. Moira falls onto her knee and drags Jesse down with her in the improvised stranglehold. Jesse bucks, trying to grasp at Moira, her tongue sticking out of her mouth and her eyes bulging open. Moira yanks Jesse across the line of the ring with a growl, teeth bared.

Instructor Wells calls the end of the match and Moira leaves the ring to join the victors. Lance sees Wells clasp Moira’s shoulder as she passes and says something to her. Moira, mouth open as she pants, nods and continues walking. Jesse gets up off the ground, hand rubbing her throat. She re-joins the challengers at the back of the line. A medic checks her over and must deem her fit to continue because she isn’t taken to the side.

Moira stumbles to a spot beside Lance. They nod at each other and Moira stoops over, hands on knees as she catches her breath.

Rachel steps into the ring some fights later, the second match for the current king who is on his second try. Rachel punches him in the throat, and then in the groin, as soon as the match begins and pushes him backwards out of the ring. He makes an awful choking sound as he hits the dirt, curling into himself. He’s done.

Jesse hoists her opponent by the waist and falls backwards, landing the competitor outside the ring. If they had landed on their feet instead of dropping onto the ground, legs outstretched, they would have remained in the ring’s border.

The last fight was between two unfamiliar candidates, both on their second tries. Neither had the energy to do more than try to push the other, the match coming to a close when they were crouched and pushing at each other in something that resembled a rugby scrum. It ended when one of the candidates suddenly rolled to the side in mid-air, flinging the other competitor out of the ring.

The end of Limbo is called when Wells calls with the whistle in three sharp tones. Lance’s innards feel like they’re pooling at his feet and he thinks he’s hearing colour. Wells says words that Lance can’t listen to, and the candidates are moved back into the compound in jeeps. In the auditorium Wells announces who stays and who continues, depending on medical drops, DORs and those who underperformed. In total, twenty-six candidates had been dropped from the program. Fifty remained.

Lance didn’t recognise any of the droppers, maybe he was too tired. All candidates were to be checked over by medical staff, wash and finally rest. The next day those who failed Phase I will board the coaches back to DC while those who remain recover and prepare for the Phase II.

Lance showers in a haze, barely acknowledging greetings and remarks. He struggles to wash his upper body with numb, sore arms. He mechanically dries and dresses himself, stumbling to his empty dorm. Lance is asleep before he hits the pillow.

* * *

Morning comes in a haze, Lance can’t feel half his body and wishes he couldn’t feel the other half. He drags himself down to the cafeteria for a, blessedly warm, breakfast. Lance joins Moira, Rachel, Jesse, David and Tristan on a bench. He’s half surprised David made it through Limbo, the man doesn’t look like much to Lance.

The energy in the compound seemed to be replenished. A jitter of triumph and ego; they stood at the edge of hell and started walking, nothing can stop them now.

They spend the rest of the day packing for the next stage of their training. As Lance packs away his socks he wonders what it would be like if Piotr was still there, if the rustling of his things would be less deafening. He keeps his MP3 player and borrowed novel for the bus ride.

He calls his dad for the last time in Blue Marsh Compound. The hour goes by in a flurry of _congratulations_ and _your mom would be so proud_. Lance relates to his dad for the first time over Limbo, how awful it was, how mentally demanding it was. But Lance knew, at his core, he wouldn’t give up. The call ends on a sad note when his dad tells Lance his mother was the same way.

_She was so determined Lance, had a fire in her. You’re so much like her. I know you can do this._

His dad's voice sounds strained, he’s proud of Lance but it hurts to think of his wife. It hurts that Lance resembles her so much, in body and spirit.

Lance hangs up with a soft goodbye, he’ll call when he reaches the new compound. He rushes out of the room, hoping to avoid potential Australian familial strife.

* * *

It’s a quiet morning as the HTUV trainee agents gather for the last time in the auditorium. Wells stands with the other instructors congratulating them all for clearing the first Phase; it has the highest drop out to pass ratio out of all five. He tells fifty young faces that while this is only the beginning of their trials, a solid foundation for physical fitness and mental ability has been lain.

Three coaches were used to transport the candidates into Blue Marsh; one will take those who remain out of Blue Marsh, _Whippet Transportations_ scrawled along the sides. They’re headed for Louisiana, a nineteen-hour drive. Lance wonders where the private jets come in. Hopefully soon because those seats make his back ache.

He hands his bag to the driver who packs it away into the storage compartment underneath the bus. Inside he saves a spot for Moira by taking the aisle seat. He shuffles to take the window seat as she stiffly stumbles up the coach stairs. She greets him with a quiet hello, still tired from Limbo.

The coach fills with a trickle of sore and bleary-eyed candidates. Some Lance recognise, like Ramira and David, who nod in greeting. Some candidates he’s never spoken to. Tristan is asleep, slouched on the window. Jesse, sitting beside him, chats with Rachel in the opposite row.

The coach starts with a lurch and hiss of hydraulics. Lance strains to look up at the glass ceiling for the last time and watches the yellow lights of the tunnel flash by. White light streams in as they leave the tunnel. The coach turns down the dirt road and smooths out when they hit pavement. It begins to rain when they hit the highway and head south.

_You Are Now Leaving Pennsylvania, Come Back Soon._

Lance listens to music and races the raindrops as they streak down the window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that concludes Phase I of their training. the boys don't really like each other yet, but that'll improve... eventually...
> 
> DOR forms are real forms military selection courses use  
> i want to have this fic parallel history with some of the events, but it won't always be faithful to real life events because i'm a wee bit thick lmao  
> Limbo is based off of hell week from BUD/s, where they do essentially the same things as i'd written in this fic  
> lance is slowly learning how to read people, so he may be better at catching those little expressions etc also want to establish rn that lance Is an unreliable narrator and it's from his pov for most of this fic, there'll be stuff going on in the bg he might not notice
> 
> onto Louisiana now, wonder what's gonna happen there


	5. Phase II - (part i)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louisiana  
> April

When Lance’s mom died, after the funeral and the laying of her star in the Washington Memorial base, his dad took him on a cross-state road trip.

The old Lincoln Continental chugged along the enormous American highways. From Virginia to Tennessee, staying on the I-40 through Arkansas, Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona, until they reached California.

They drove to the ocean, his dad sitting him down on a beach in Anaheim. Lance was young at the time and numb from heartbreak. But he still remembers the gentle winter sun, the crash of waves on the sand and the smell of salt they brought with them. He remembers the tears gathering in his father’s eyes when he looked out at the Pacific.

For a while they had sat together, picking at sandwiches filled with mustard and long slices of pink meat. He told Lance about his mom; how she grew up here, their first date was her teaching him how to surf, she loved The Hat and their pastrami sandwiches. He’d realised how much he loved her when he saw her laughing in the sun, hair wild and skin dusted with dried salt. He proposed to her on this beach, ten years ago. He told Lance how much she loved him, how excited she was to have a baby.

She was HTUV’s best; operator specialty and in the top five rankings of their graduating year. Lance’s dad never told him how she died. Only that her and her partner never returned from their mission. There was no body to bury.

* * *

Lance watches the yellow road markers flit by. He reads a bit of his borrowed novel; the protagonist has finally found the sword she was sent on a quest to find, but that was barely past the midway point, which makes Lance nervous. He listens to music, but after the first four hours the same twenty-odd songs lose their appeal. Sometimes Lance dozes off, his head cushioned by the sides of his seat. When Moira looks away from the murder mystery Ramira lent her at the party, they chat.

“I’ve never really left Ohio, apart from going to MIT. There wasn’t any need; all my family were there, and I had a job lined up after uni. My parents had talked about flying us over to Cork, but it was always too expensive.” She tells him, as they watch the passing cars. “It’s so strange to go to the places I’ve only seen on license plates.”

Lance doesn’t see much romance in travelling to states like Pennsylvania, but he understands the wonder.

“When I was a kid, my dad drove me all the way to Anaheim, in California, it took us something like a week because he wanted to stop at all the crazy roadside attractions along the way.” Lance smiles at the memory.

“Oh?”

“It was the first time I’d left the city, let alone the state.”

“Was this...” Moira trails off, wincing.

“Yeah, it was.” Moira’s quiet after that, her shoulders hunching inwards. Lance has a feeling he knows why.

“I don’t mind talking about my mom and her death, y’know.”

“Wait, really?” Lance nods. “But you looked pretty put out when Piotr asked in Blue Marsh, you even left to your room.”

“Because all I was getting from you guys were these pitying looks! Trust me man, I don’t need it. Mom died when I was, like, seven, I barely remember her.” Moira’s eyebrows, initially raised in surprise, immediately crumpled downwards.

“That’s so sad though!” Lance shrugged, not knowing how to react. They’re quiet once more before he sighs.

“Look, mom dying was awful. But it was also thirteen years ago. I’ve grown up with people walking on eggshells when they talk about her, they try to be considerate but it just ends up being annoying. I’m not gonna burst into tears, and I won’t be angry if someone brings her up.” Moira’s face was neutral throughout his speech. Then she nodded, considering his words. Then she frowned.

“ _Are you only twenty fucking years old_.” She says, it almost sounds like an accusation.

“Wh- How did you not know?” Lance sputters.

“You’re just a baby. Holy shit. I’m eight years older than you. What the fuck.” Moira’s looking at the back of the seat on front of her, hands cradling her head. Lance has turned to face her fully, arms moving for emphasis.

“Why does this surprise you so much?” His voice may have gone up an octave.

“Because you’re this wee super spy Adonis, top in our year, extremely smart, and yet _you can’t legally drink._ ” Before Lance can retort someone in the row behind them asks,

“What are you two shouting about?” It’s Jesse, who’s leaning on her arm rest.

Moira swivels around to face Jesse, hanging out into the corridor of the bus. “Lance is a fucking child Jesse.”

Jesse squints and manages to make ‘what’ a facial expression.

“Dude, how old are you?”

“He’s twenty!” Moira says for him, Jesse’s eyes go impressively wide. Then she sharply elbows Tristan in the side, who snorts awake and detaches himself from the window. One of his cheeks is bright red from resting on it.

“Hu-guh, Jesse what the fu-“

“McFord. That boy,” Jesse points at Lance like he’s a witch on trial, “is five years younger than us.” Tristan stops speaking mid word, mouth hanging open. Then he looks at Lance and smirks. Lance thinks he looks ridiculous trying to be smug with a huge red splotch on his face.

“Guess I was right in calling you a kid, then.”

Lance rolls his eyes and flips them all off. They laugh, and Moira says maybe he needs a nap. He pushes her head away and puts his headphones on, muttering _damn old people_ , which is met with more laughter.

* * *

The Shenandoah National Park surrounds the bus, almost looming over them. The surrounding mountains a tunnel that starts in Pennsylvania and ends in Alabama. The ground flattens, and marshland becomes more apparent. The trees become thinner and the brush less expansive. Lance’s eyes feel gritty and his mouth is fuzzy. His hips hurt from what has to be seventeen-odd hours of driving.

They stop at inconspicuous gas stations to relieve themselves and fill up the bus’s tank. The driver always comes in and quietly speaks with the person at the register. There are no security cameras.

They’re in Tennessee, and Lance is waiting in line for the bathroom, when Rachel calls his name from across the store, by the register. She grins and waggles a cheap plastic toy at him. Lance is devastated by this betrayal.

“So, how’d you even get accepted into this program. You’re way too young to have a degree in anything, and isn’t it a prerequisite for the entrance exams?” Asks David, and how’d he even know about that? Then Lance remembers he took a seat beside Ramira, who was behind Rachel, who was probably told by Jesse. He’s surrounded by gossips.

“Because I’m just that good.” Says Lance, smirking. He hears a snort and suspects it’s from Tristan. David raises an eyebrow in response and doesn’t bring it up again.

“I’m just happy Piotr isn’t here to hear about this.” Remarks Tristan, as they head to the bus. “He’s thirty and had a hard-enough time knowing I was twenty-five.” Rachel makes a noise of agreement and Lance wonders where Piotr is now. Hopefully completing that apprenticeship in the tech labs he’d mentioned. He’ll have to figure out how to contact him and ask.

Lance is too immersed in his book to notice the sign welcoming him into Louisiana. They drive through Birmingham, Meridian, Hattiesburg. When Lance looks up from his book, they’re on a bridge going across Lake Pontchartrain’s green waters towards New Orleans.

Lance and Moira lean close to the window, admiring the hanging lights and complex architecture. Busy people bustle in amongst the buildings. A veritable hive of activity, with each individual on their own path. They leave the city, following the road into the marshland, dotted with bald cypress. Tree coverage becomes more dense and streetlamps more sparse. Lance swears he spots deer, but he isn’t sure if they live in swamps. Maybe it’s just tiredness. The radio, set to 823.4 AM, sang only static. Can a radio even go to that high a frequency?

It’s well into evening now, and Lance sees the yellow flash of animal eyes catching the headlights. He feels a sense of unease staring out into the darkness, only to find his hollow-eyed reflection staring back. Some of the candidates, who have yet to fall asleep, whisper amongst each other. Moira snores away to Lance’s left, her head resting on his shoulder. Lance has half a mind to elbow the _old woman_ awake.

The road is much narrower now. They’re driving beside a river that trickles like ink in the darkness. He spots a sign telling them they’re on Old Pigeon Road. He blinks and his eyes stick together.

The bus lurches to a stop in front of a small building. Lance sees a man sitting on a bench near the door, an electric lantern at his feet. The driver clambers out of his cab by the side door and hurries over to the man, who looks up at him expectantly. Lance cranes his body to the window to listen to the conversation.

He catches _sorry we’re late_ and _no trouble_ before Moira jolts awake as her head slips off his shoulder.

“Hwoah… I’m awake… I’m up.” She says, sleepily.

“Evening granny.” Says Lance, looking away from the window. Moira makes a face at Lance before stretching as well as she could in the seat’s limited space.

“Are we there?” She tries to look out the window.

“Not sure, driver’s talking with some guy.”

“Maybe getting directions?” Lance sees the driver nod and show the man something, an ID perhaps?

“I don’t think so…” He says absentmindedly, watching the exchange outside. The driver hurries back to his compartment to open the doors to the coach and immediately hops out to begin unloading bags, telling the candidates _this was their spot_.

It’s with much groaning that they do. Some candidates nudged, smacked, or pinched awake by the others. Someone yelps when the person sitting next to them pinches their nose until they rouse.

A candidate named Xiao, who managed to sleep through the klaxons in Blue Marsh on more than one occasion, had a small gathering of people trying to wake him up by shouting his name, removing his sleeping mask, and lightly smacking his face. It wasn’t until his David, who was his roommate, pours water over his head did he wake up. 

Stiffly, tiredly the fifty remaining trainees shuffle out of the coach. Some stand in a half daze, some help the driver with the bags, while others yet look out into the darkness, and at the man. The air is balmy, sitting in the middle of Lance’s lungs as he swats at mosquitoes.

“You sure you don’t want to stay for dinner?” Says the man, appearing beside Lance and startling him. When’d he get there? Lance must’ve jumped because the man tilts his head to Lance and winks. The driver, flinging the last of the bags out of the coach, shakes his head.

“I’d love to, sir, but I’ve gotta make it to Missouri before daybreak for check-in.” He responds, voice laced with a southern twang not unlike Jesse’s. The man nods in understanding. 

Then the bus, with a hiss and a hurried wave from the driver, turns and leaves the surprised candidates in the swampy dust. Some people yell out in confusion, others merely blearily blink at the fading orange light. All their bags are neatly stacked by the side of the road. Lance notices the man waving at the bus as it disappears into the darkness. Then he looks over the group as they talk amongst themselves. The volume rising with their panic.

“Good evening, trainees. Calm down now, ain’t gonna eat you or nothing.” He says, in a placid tone that somehow manages to carry over the din. Maybe it was the time, or the fact they’d been dumped in a middle-of-nowhere town at three am, but everyone’s attention desperately fixes onto the calm man.

He holds the lantern by his side and Lance sees a gnarled scar knotting from the base of his neck, up to his left temple. Surprisingly, the scar did little to make the man intimidating. The easy smile and laugh lines may have something to do with it.

“Now, congratulations on making it to the Second Phase. Or Phase Two. Whatever them board members wish to call it this year,” He starts, scanning the group with canny eyes. “You haven’t been left to fend for yourself out here, as much as HTUV tries to convince you of it.” He makes towards the Old Pigeon Diner

“Please, come with me. Y’all must be hungry.” They were, so they did.

The inside of the diner was larger than what the outside made it seem. And it was, strangely, not void of customers. Six people were sitting at a table near the back of the room, talking amongst themselves. The man, leading the group into the diner, hollered into the room.

“Kids’ve arrived, and I imagine they’re starving.”

The manager tells the candidates to _find a seat wherever, they’ll all be fed_. She greets the man as he makes his way to the table, taking a seat at the head. Lance finds himself between Xiao and Ramira near the middle of the room. Moira and Rachel sit across from him; Jesse, David and Tristan are at the table adjacent to theirs.

The room is no less hot or humid than the outside and grows more so from the combined body heat of sixty-odd people and the warmth from the kitchen. Lance regrets keeping his tracksuit jacket on.

The place fills with the smell of rich food and indistinct chatter. The promise of a meal putting some energy back into the candidates. Then the doors to the kitchen burst open with the servers distributing steaming plates filled with beans and red rice, battered crawfish and prawns, and mac n cheese.

The smells and appearance of the foods makes Lance’s mouth water. His last meal being a bag of Cheetos bought from a gas station four hours ago. Platters of the three foods are set in the middle of each table, with the trainees taking as much as they wanted. Lance piles his with the rice and seafood as the others descend on the mac n cheese.

It tasted completely unlike the bland, preserved foods from Blue Marsh. The taste and texture of the well-cooked meal made Lance close his eyes as he ate. He listens to people talk around him.

_“Holy shit, I think I’m having a food-gasm.”  
“Please never fucking say that again.”_

_“This shit hits different after four months of pork sausage and unsalted hash-browns.”_

_“I never thought I’d miss spice this much.”  
“Now you get it.”_

_“And to think I_ liked _Blue Marsh’s food.”  
  
_

_“I guess it’s true what they say about Louisianans.”  
"And what’s that?”  
"Most eat to live; they live to eat.”_

The meals are wolfed down in less than an hour, some people taking seconds of whatever was left, some walking around and picking remains from other tables like vultures. Lance’s stomach is uncomfortably full and he’s ready to sleep for a day or two.

The man wipes the corners of his mouth with a napkin before standing up and addressing the group.

“Now that all of you aren’t eyeing me like a pack of starved dogs, it may well be time to introduce you to your instructors.” He gestures for the staff to leave; they go into the kitchen and close the door. The man looks to an Indian woman who’s focusing on a small HTUV tablet with a glowing screen. She looks at him and nods. He clears his throat

“I am Ex-Special Agent Beau Johnson, your head instructor for Phase Two.” His voice is steady and calls out through the room. “But, please, call me Beau.

“The people at this table are the staff present at Steel Jaw Barrow, your home for the next six weeks.” He introduces the two medical personnel, Doctors Clemons and Pascal. Both had rich, dark skin. Clemons wore her hair in neat cornrows and had small gold earrings in each lobe. Pascal had a neck tattoo of brightly inked clementines and their small white flowers. Both wave and smile politely at the crowd. Apparently HTUV has a rotation of doctors throughout all of its operations, and this was their first year at Steel Jaw.

Beau gestures to a Thai woman, Yasmin Suparat, engineer and groundskeeper of Steel Jaw. According to him she’s the most important person on site. Yasmin rolls her eyes and smiles at Beau. He must say this often.

Then Beau gestures to the three people sitting closest to him.

“These are your instructors. Cabo Dragov,” A Bulgarian man with a prosthetic hand, “will train the operators. He’s somewhat _heavy handed_ in his teachings, but still effective.” Beau winks at Dragov, who gives him an exasperated look and nods to the crowd. Lance has a feeling he’s also scanning the group to pick out potential operators.

“Rashia Able,” the Indian woman with the tablet, “takes all communications specialists and makes you actually learn something. None of that Blue Marsh ‘code of conduct’ they drilled you about.” Rashida curls her lip at the mention of Blue Marsh but doesn’t look up from her tablet. The cyan glow highlights her high cheekbones and hooked nose.

“And I,” Beau places a hand on his chest, “will take the promising engineers in this group.”

He pauses to let information settle in their heads, before starting up again.

“Phase Two is not about conditioning, or the pruning of weaker candidates, ‘wheat and chaff’ as Wells would’ve put it. We’re here to teach you how to _survive_.” Beau’s voice drops, his face suddenly becoming serious, “Agents aren’t worth much if they can barely get to the mission in one piece, or evade capture from pursuing enemies.

“HTUV’s future, and the fate of the world, doesn’t look too great if our people can’t tell the difference between belladonna and a handful of blueberries.

“I won’t lie to you, kids; this phase is uncomfortable. You’re all used to the piped air and controlled environment of Blue Marsh, and now you have to adapt to all the bugs and humidity of Steel Jaw. But a good agent will take an adverse situation and twist it to their advantage. We hope to see that over the next six weeks.”

Beau goes one to outline the schedule, with help from Rashida who seems to have access to the notes on her tablet. There won’t be any exams like the ones during Phase I, the focus now being on teaching the smaller trainee body key skills in field work as an agent. Including navigation, foreign languages, field medicine, plant identification, and evading detection from enemies.

Lance feels a jolt of excitement, they all sound like something he’d need as an agent. He doesn’t pick up on Beau omitting details of Phase II’s last week.

Beau’s speech is bookended with meals. The moment he finishes, the waitstaff are signalled to bring out dessert; large helpings of beignets and whole pecan pies, steam gently wafting off of them. Lance had never tried the latter before, Washington D.C. wasn’t big on sweet pies. It was much better than he expected, and he helped himself to David’s portion when he mentioned he couldn’t eat any more.

Beau has the other Phase II staff usher the candidates out of the diner with their bags. Lance sees him stay behind to talk with the owner. Beau hands her a large clip of money, she takes it with a tired smile.

* * *

The night has managed to get darker since the last time Lance was out. Large, buzzing insects crowd the few streetlights on this road and out in the swamp an animal screeches. The humid air settles like a film over Lance’s skin.

The candidates are walked down the dirt path, gravel crunches under fifty pairs of white sneakers. Some people chat amongst themselves, but most are too tired from the long journey and full meal to do more than walk. Lance falls into the latter category. Unfortunately, Xiao doesn’t.

“And, you know, Louisianan architecture is unique to the state, and a lot of credence is lent to the Creole and Acadian people living here during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Lots of popular styles for buildings, like Tuscan, Parisian Second Empire and early Victorian, just never caught on in Louisiana like they did in the rest of America.”

“Mmhm…” Maybe this is why people have naps after eating a bunch of carbs. Lance could do with a nap, instead he gets to trudge down a dirt road following some swamp person.

“Yeah! And the three major styles, French Creole, Greek Revival and Gothic Revival, make Louisiana stand out in the architectural world. Especially the shotgun houses and their habit of having no hallways. Instead the rooms open into each other. It’s really interesting, they even had outbuildings called pigeonniers, that would house pet and carrier pigeons. It’s really a shame the carrier pigeon went extinct, they were integral to the war effort, and pigeons have been one of humanity’s longest companions. Also! Lots of the Creole cottages had mud packed between the timbers to encourage the growth of moss, letting the houses integrate into the scenery.”

“That’s great dude…” Lance remembers being sang to sleep by his mother, it wasn’t near as effective as Xiao expunging about the history of Louisianan architecture in the middle of the night.

“Greek Revival had a huge impact in the Louisiana we see today, but did you know the white Greek temples we see were actually painted blue, yellow, and red? By the eighteenth century all the paint had fallen away to expose the white marble, but imagine how different everything would look if the ancient Greek temples retained their colour. Louisiana was also one of the few states where Greek and Gothic Revival evolved to suit the inhabitants’ needs.”

“Yeah, no, totally.” It’s not that Lance doesn’t love American house history, or whatever, he’s just… so tired right now, and Xiao’s voice has a very melodic lilt to it. Like a storybook reader.

“Pardon, Lance?” He said that part out loud, didn’t he?

“You did, yeah.” Hmm. Shit.

The candidates are taken off trail, into the long grass. Lance walks over it gingerly, remembering when he was younger and twisting his ankle falling into a pit hidden by grass similar to this. The ground evens out after a while, which helps because his bag gets heavier with each step.

Eventually they reach a concealed dock, five large air boats are parked. HTUV logo stuck onto each boats’ side. The trainees are guided onto the boats with the instructors counting the heads as they get on, a few have to get on another boat because one had filled.

Lance gets a seat on the very end of the wooden bench. He looks out into the bayou and regrets it when many, many pairs of eyes look back, bright orange from the lantern light. The air boats whir to life with a great roar and take off down the murky swamp river. Lance keeps his bag firmly tucked between his feet, unsure if he’d ever find it should it be sent flying.

The wind is blessedly cool against Lance’s face and the boats themselves are surprisingly agile as they race along the bends of the river. Someone chokes on a bug.

They must have been moving for well over half an hour when Beau hollers from the front air boat.

“Steel Jaw Barrow’s just ahead! Depart from the boats carefully, I don’t want to fish anyone out tonight!”

The crafts slow and Lance lurches forward from the momentum. They stop at a well-maintained dock, lichens and moss growing wherever they could find purchase.

Beau leads the group across the dock into the centre of a large platform, which Lance assumes forms the centre of the camp. Planks and stairs lead off to cabins on stilts. All identifiable features evaporate into the darkness, but brass numbers on their doors flash as they catch the lantern light. 1, 3, 5.

Yasmin hurries into the buildings closest to the docks: a large, two story cabin with white walls and green shutters. Lance hears rustling and then the start of an engine. Small orange lights around the camp sputter alive and Steel Jaw Barrow rouses from its slumber. Beau makes his way to the centre of the platform, pushing through the crowd.

  
“Now, ‘scuse me, I won’t bother all of you with housing assignment right now. Pardon me. You’ve travelled all day and I imagine a nice, long sleep is high on all of your priorities right now.

“There are five cabins that will house you here at the burrow. Ten to each.” He waves his hand at the crowd and gestures in a wide arc at the handful of cabins off surrounding them. Two on the left and three on the right. “Don’t be picky for tonight; everything’ll be sorted tomorrow when all of you aren’t dead on your feet.”

Beau and the other instructors watch the trainees filter off to the inconspicuous cabins, ensuring that no one falls into the swamp.

Lance shuffles to cabin five, knowing the nearer ones would fill up first. It’s a single, rectangular room with wire bunk beds lining the wooden walls, stainless steel lockers bracket each bed. A single fan hangs dejectedly from the ceiling, motionless. Lance is too tired to figure out how to turn it on and banish the stale thickness of the air inside. He collapses on the bottom bunk furthest from the door. It’s too hot to do anything but sleep spread eagle on top of the sheets. He toes off his shoes and manages to peel off his sweat drenched socks.

He’s dead to the world before the other occupants shuffle into the cabin. The sheets are starchy and smell like detergent. A chorus of screeching crickets, rabbits, and owls frame his dreams.

In the cabin, three veterans sit around a table.

“Large group this year.” Says the man with a whirring prosthetic hand.

“It’ll be the highest peak in a while, expect the numbers to begin decreasing at this point.” Responds the woman scanning information on her tablet, her right eye glows a faint, inhuman cyan.

“Lots of high achievers too, Harry had mentioned a fair handful of kids to me that show promise.” Adds a man with a large, gnarled scar stretching across his face.

“High praise from Wells, of all people.” Replies the woman.

“He can be a good judge of character when he wants to be.”

“Hmm. We’ll see if his judgement holds true, some people can only thrive in closed environments.” Remarks Cabo, the other two nod in agreement.

“I like the look of Sterling and McFord. They’re projected to be partners and were in the top ten for both Limbo and the aptitude exam.” Rashida notes, scrolling through the reports and files of all remaining candidates. Only her left eye moves.

“Didn’t you see how they avoided each other at the diner, though? I imagine there’s some tension between them we’ll have to sort out, if ol’ Joyless wants her way. Yamamoto and Alverez have better temperaments, give them a nudge here and there and they should work well together.” Says Beau, he puts down a ten-dollar bill. Rashia looks at the money and her tablet.

“I’m still sticking with my original choices, Johnson.” Rashia slides her own bet to the middle of the table. They both turn to Cabo, who frowns at nothing while he thinks.

“You bastards took both of my choices.” They chuckle, “I’ll go with Man. Man Xiao. He seems like a hidden gem; I don’t doubt he’ll make top rankings by the end of this.” Cabo ends his statement by passing his money, only five dollars, to the centre, meeting with the other two bets. Rashida makes a note and stows the money away.

“That settles that. I look forward to collecting this when my candidates stride across the stage to accept their honours’ plaque.” She says with a cat-like grin. Cabo scoffs,

“Phase Two hasn’t even started yet, and here you are confident some cocky boys with too much pride are going to finish at the top of the year, let alone get through all five phases.”

“I feel it in my guts, Dragov, just you see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the full phase ii written stuff is Double the length of phase i, so there might be a lot more parts in this one
> 
> the wall of memorial stars is canon in SiD, we see lance pass it in the beginning of the movie and there's concept art of him looking at it all mournful  
> the gang find out Lance is 20 years old and Loses Their Minds lmao, he's a baby now  
> the lads and ladies are In The Swamp!! good for them  
> i spent a mortifying amount of time googling Louisianan architectural history for Xiao's speech, this fanfic is giving me a weird education lmao  
> also, all candidates who drop are down but not out, so you haven't seen the last of Piotr  
> damn dudes it's p weird that Beau refers to Wells by his first name,,,, wonder why,,,,,,


	6. Phase II - (part ii)

Dawn smacks Lance over the head as he’s awakened by the blaring call of a trumpet. Someone is startled out of the bunk above his, latching onto the frame out of instinct and nearly toppling the whole thing, catching it as their feet hit the floor. Lance is half thrown out of the bottom bunk and crashes against the other person’s knees, who he recognises.

“Morning, Jesse.” Lance says, hanging out of his bed, legs tangled in the sheets.

“Morning, Lance.” Jesse grunts, voice strained, and face flushed as she holds their bunk bed up with one arm.

The platform looks smaller in daylight. The morning sun leaves dapples of yellow from between the canopy onto its aged wood. Proudly in the middle stands Beau, brass trumpet in hand. Lance misses the klaxons already.

The candidates shuffle to the white cabin, grabbing the foldable chairs and tables Beau pointed them to. The bottom floor of the cabin has a low ceiling, appearing smaller than it probably was. Stairs trail up the left wall, across from the foot of the stairs is an opening leading to a hallway. The back of the cabin is dominated by a large kitchen, divided by a half wall, shuttered closed, and a stable door. The top half is latched open, Lance hears the bustling of the kitchen staff within. A heady aroma fills the room.

Outside, the candidates unfold the furniture along white guidelines that look freshly painted on the platform. Lance’s chair has an uneven back leg and the table makes the hairs on his arm stand up when he runs his hand over it. The table only just manages to fit all eight of them and Lance finds himself squashed between Tristan and Xiao. Breakfast was scrambled eggs with a healthy serving of tabasco sauce, toast, and fried crawfish, handed through the opened half wall by a haggard looking cook.

Lance tries to mind his business. Until Tristan elbows his arm, sending his forkful of eggs and crawfish onto the table. Lance may have over exaggerated his motion to spear a piece of toast, elbowing Tristan in the ribs. Tristan jerks his arm back to push Lance’s away, throwing him a cold side-eye. Lance looks at him innocently, like nothing had happened. He tries to elbow Tristan again, because why not. Tristan kicks his ankle.

Moira watches this happen from across the table, she doesn’t look impressed.

Near the end of breakfast, the staff disperse throughout the seated crowd, handing out plastic-wrapped parcels. Lance rips the packaging open and several items of clothing fall onto the cleared table. Two black, waterproof boots clunk onto the table. A blue long-sleeved shirt with a white collar follows. As does a pair of synthetic trousers that cinch at the ankles. There’s also a pair of white socks that reaches Lance’s knee. Then a rain jacket, and waterproof pants, both blue.

Lance removes a pair of work gloves, dark blue with white accents, from a baseball cap. The hat is white with bold, black lettering stamped along the front: _Whippet Transportations_. He chuckles and puts it down with the rest of the clothes.

After the trainees disassemble their seating, neatly lining the tables and chairs back on the wall in the cabin. Beau assigns them their own cabins by candidate number; Rachel and David in one; Lance and Moira in two; Jesse in three; Tristan in four; Xiao and Ramira in five.

Lance quietly unpacks his belongings into his half of his locker alongside Moira, who took top bunk. They change into their work-out gear by order of Beau, who mentioned morning training.

The candidates are taken by air boat to a flat strip of land close to a path. It’s well-worn and resembles an athletics track; a dirt oval run into the grass encircling an obstacle course made of tires and logs. Much to the groaning of fifty students, Beau has them on a four-mile run as a warmup. The humid air doesn’t like being inhaled and Lance finds he’s out of breath sooner than in Blue Marsh. The harried panting from Moira doesn’t help keep his focus.

They go through a timed obstacle course comprised of climbing a five-meter rope, running through tires, crawling underneath barbed wire, and dragging large tractor tires across twenty meters in the sand. At the side, candidates went through sets of push-ups, squats, and pull-ups while holding ten-kilogram weights. The sun rises to its zenith far too early for Lance’s liking. His shirt sticks to his chest and back, so he takes it off. At the other side of the wire fence, a woman calls out to Beau,

“That time of year already, Johnson?”

Beau laughs, putting his hands on his hips. “You know it, Ophelia. Gotta make sure the fresh meat stays fresh.”

“Oh, they look _fresh_ , if you ask me,” She winks, and Lance feels very aware of his body. “I’d better let the girls know them military types are back sweating it out in our backyard again. We love the show!”

“Well I bet y’all do. Have a wonderful day Ophelia!” Beau says, laughing. Ophelia returns the sentiment and goes back to her walk. Lance shoots Beau a skeptical look.

“Is it alright that they know we’re here?”

“Don’t worry about that, Sterling. For all they know we’re the Marines, and you’re fresh out of basic learning about jungle survival.”

“In the bayou?”

“They’re here to ogle the buff soldiers, not to think about inconsistencies in information.”

“Ah…”

“Back on the course, Sterling, I wanna see how fast you can climb.”

* * *

The ride back to camp gave the cool breeze Lance needed. His muscles sore from the exercise and sweat coating most of his body. There were wash racks between two student cabins, back at Steel Jaw. A trough to catch rainwater was connected to showerheads. There were filters and wire mesh on top of the trough and on the connection with the showerheads to keep out detritus and animals.

Beau had proudly mentioned they were designed and constructed by non-other than Yasmin Suparat, the camp’s resident engineer and groundskeeper. As Lance stood underneath the cool stream of water, he had half a mind to go straight to her and weep thanks at her feet.

“I did not miss that aspect of training.” Says Moira from the next stall over, she scrubs the 3-in-1 they keep in dispensers into her ruddy brown hair, mindful of the sunburn beginning to form along the bridge of her nose and tops of her cheeks. Lance makes a noise of agreement.

“Is this gonna be a thing now,” says Jesse from the stall to the other side of Lance, “shower time talk?”

“If you want it to be, Yamamoto.” Replies Moira. Jesse groans.

“Why’d I let you know my surname.”

  
  
“It sounds so nice though!”

“You use it all the time, just call me by my name.” Lance turns the off water and quickly dries himself with a towel, not wanting to get caught between the two and whatever complex is being aired. He leaves the stall, passing David who was next in line. He pats him on the shoulder.

“Have fun in there.”

* * *

The specialisations were separated into their first classes; communications took the top floor of the cabin with Rashida, where dummy equipment was set up; Beau ushered the engineers to the garage at the back, large racks of tools lined the walls and a medley of vehicles were parked on the only concrete platform for miles; the operators went with Cabo into the main room of the cabin, where a projector was set up. 

During the shuffle from Blue Marsh to Steel Jaw, some candidates had swapped specialisations. Lance notices new faces and the absence of others but doesn't think much of it. They were sitting in the foldable chairs that lined the wall. Cabo stands at the wall, in front of a sheet used to catch the projector’s light.

“Mm,” he grunts, “large group of operators. Usually it’s the smallest of the three, now they’re quite even. What a year.” He says the last part more to himself than the class.

“Olokadana was your teacher at Blue Marsh, yes?” He asks, there’s a murmured chorus of confirmation and the nodding of heads. He makes a noise of approval, “they’re a good agent, know lots about the psychology of manipulation. Me? Not so much. I was more the ‘hit the target where it temporarily incapacitates them’ type of operator.” He pauses. “Are you all aware of why we divide and separate into these… classes?” The question is met with quiet; someone shakes their head. Cabo grunts again, Lance has a feeling he’s never been much of a words kind of guy.

“HTUV is many moving parts, all working towards the completion of a mission and averting the end of the world, or, world domination, world alteration, tax evasion, human trafficking, hostile takeover... Whatever the villain wishes to achieve in their plannings.

“Tech lab scientists develop the gadgets; tacticians brainstorm possible solutions and form the outline for a mission; coordinators keep the mission running smoothly; dry cleaners ensure your suits are up to date and functioning. But a mission will always begin and end with the field agent. We gather information, stakeout places of interest, conduct reconnaissance. And we carry out the mission itself.

“The agent pair, or pairs, best suited for each mission must be chosen; those with good fighting skills and not good talking skills are unfit for a sensitive job.” Cabo chuckles, like he remembers something, prosthetic hand twitching, “same for those with a silver tongue and weak punch. They can’t be expected to... _flourish_ in an underground fighting ring.” He clears his throat.

“An agent is always assigned a partner who is of different specialty. It, ah, balances the team, covers weak points. An operator’s knowledge of people and improvisation is very well supported by an engineer’s mechanical skills.” Someone raises their hand, and Cabo nods for them to speak.

“Mr. Dragov, sir –“ Begins Ramira.

“Cabo.”

“Right. When are we assigned partners? Do we get a choice in the matter, is it predetermined? Also, has there ever been a team of three?” This piqued Lance’s interest; he sits up straighter and watches Cabo, who nods while he listens.

“Mm. Mhm. Some pairs are matched, or predicted, as early as the entrance exams,” Lance thinks back to Joy handing him Tristan’s file, and wonders if he was the only one that was told. “If two candidates are quite, hmm, distinct the director and board members may take notice and feel they’d make a good pair,”

_Lance, you scored the highest in the entire American cohort. That’s no small feat; many of the examiners told me you’d make a good agent._

_Tristan McFord was noted by interviewers to be very independent and dedicated. They believed he would make a capable field agent._

“Sometimes the pair may be assigned same specialty, or one drops, or, heh, they hate each other’s guts. Changes are easily made throughout training, and predictions are cast again with input from instructors. It’s during the final phase, at Desolation Sound, do we disclose the partners. Graduation is when we finalise all pairs, then you’re sent to work.”

“Is there a possibility for multiple partners, though?” Asks Ramira.

“Yes, it’s rare and are formed by senior agents who may have lost their original partner, but some work. I know Internal Affairs uses strike teams of varying sizes, and the techies work in fours.”

  
  
Then Lance speaks up.

“And solo agents? What about them?” He feels the eyes of everyone in the room and tries to keep a relaxed posture. Cabo looks at Lance with an intense gaze. He shakes his head, never breaking eye contact.

“No. Remember this, Sterling. There is no such thing as a solo agent. We are not spy movie; these people will sooner shoot you through the skull than look at you. An agent who thinks they don’t need a partner will have a very short career, and a closed casket funeral.”

Lance is quiet for the rest of the class, mulling over Cabo’s words. They felt more pointed than the rest of his speech. The class is twice the length of the ones at Blue Marsh, so Lance can’t slink away any time soon. At some point, Cabo brings up a slide showing a detailed diagram of the human body, small marks and notes running off to the side.

“Over these six weeks I am to give you all a detailed knowledge of human pressure points; hitting where it hurt. Olokadana taught you how to watch another’s face for micro-expressions, and different ways to manipulate a target. I will teach you how to incapacitate people several times your size - with just one hit.”

There’s a hushed murmur of excitement and Lance straightens up out of his sulk to listen.

“Humans are just joints and nerves waiting to be exploited. Jam your thumb here,” Cabo points with a thick index finger to where the lower mandible met the upper jaw, “and the target will be on the ground yelling within seconds, the pain lingers too.” Cabo winces, like he’s experienced it. He tells the class to see for themselves; when Lance presses his thumb underneath his cheekbone, some centimetres away from his ear lobe, he feels a pain that is somehow both dull and sharp.

“The temple is a flat portion of the skull, not thin, where several plates of the skull meet and that makes it very susceptible to impact. A strong punch or slap can disorientate or knock the enemy unconscious.” Cabo smacks his own temple with the heel of his palm for emphasis.

“Here, where the neck and shoulder meet, runs the carotid arteries and vagus nerve. A sharp hit is enough to make an assailant dizzy. Three ounces of pressure to the vagus nerve is enough to knock someone unconscious. This is the same area you were taught to put pressure on in a sleeper hold, during First Phase.

“I’d ask someone to come up and volunteer for it, but they’d miss out on the rest of this lesson.” Cabo huffs a short laugh. The candidates stay awkwardly quiet.

“Take the index and middle finger of either hand, pull back to immobilise an opponent.” Cabo then calls on a volunteer for a demonstration. No one put up their hand, so he volunteers Lance instead. He has Lance stand up at the front with him and make a move to grab Cabo.

In a flurry of movement Cabo grabs Lance’s index and middle finger, rushing to Lance’s side pulling his fingers back and down. It hurts like a bitch, and before Lance could figure out what was happening, he was on one knee groaning, other two fingers splayed out to try and lessen the painful straining sensation that ran down the length of his arm. 

Cabo had grabbed Lance with his prosthetic hand. Lance could feel the inner mechanisms moving as Cabo held onto him. He sees Rachel wincing from the front row. Cabo is making this a learning moment for everyone about how anything can be exploited for weaknesses. All Lance can think about is how much his fingers hurt.

* * *

At lunch Lance and Rachel reconvene with their friend group, led by an enthusiastic Moira who was talking about something in rapid fire.

“-And during Phase One we were just taught the HTUV Code of Communication Conduct. The Triple C’s, by Millar, our comms instructor. Y’know, basic etiquette and how to converse over different media. We were shown basic coding and the different scripts HTUV uses, and what we’d encounter in the field, but man, Rashida knows her shit.”

Lance had no idea what Moira was on about afterwards: kernels, bytes, bandwidth, different ways to produce interference, something like that. Looking around to the blank, almost dazed expressions from the other people at the table, he had a feeling he wasn’t alone in his confusion. No one interjects though, Moira seems to be enjoying herself.

Their first day ends in the cabin, the candidates are taken through the hallway, floorboards creaking under their combined weight with such ferocity that Lance is half convinced the floor is about to give out from under them. Beau walks up to a nondescript section of wall and pushes a knot in the wood. There's a click and the knot sinks into the plank. The wall slides back to show a small panel where Beau punches in a code ten figures long. There’s a sound of stone sliding over stone, and then the wall unlatches. Beau pulls it open to show a concrete staircase leading down into a surprisingly well-lit room.

The basement must have the same area as the ground floor of the cabin. Tables are neatly lining the walls and taking up sections in the middle of the room. Covering every available surface were planters. Some were exposed and red, green, even yellow leaves spread out over the tables. Some were fully covered and had large warning labels for toxic substances along the sides. There’s even a couple cacti and bonsai growing amongst the plants.

The air smells like soil and has a different kind of humidity to it, like that of a greenhouse freshly sprayed with water. Along the walls were framed samples of dried plants, leaves, flowers, fruits, and mushrooms, accompanied by their scientific names, and effects on the body. Lance sees one for cherry leaves of all things.

“This, trainees, is my personal collection of flora and fungi from all over the world. Some of these samples are used in HTUV poisons and sedatives for field use. The tranquillizer darts we utilise don’t fully knock out the victim, nothing really can without killing them. It’s more an aid in neutralising an opponent during a fight, or for a target you need to extract.” Beau walks around his plants, hand hovering over the samples as he looks for what he needs. “and more still, can be used to survive when in the field.” He stops at a table in the centre, where several different breeds of plants grow uncovered. Lance recognises one as aloe vera.

“As an agent, there’s always the chance a mission goes to shit, and you’re injured and running for your life. You’ll still need to eat, and treat the wound, so you don’t die of starvation and infection before backup arrives.”

Beau holds up a plant with small purple flowers and thin, oval shaped leaves. He calls it Brunella Carpenter weed, the heal-all. It grows almost everywhere in the northern hemisphere and treats sprains and wounds.

The next plant was called agrimony; five yellow petals on a vine. He calls it a coagulant. When he doesn’t elaborate, Lance asks Rachel, who says it’ll help stop bleeding.

The concrete floor is hard against Lance’s feet and he tries shifting his weight to lessen the discomfort. He repeats Beau lesson’s back to himself, should he ever need them.

Oak bark for burns. Birch and white willow bark for pain relief. Cherry bark for diarrhoea.

Ale hoof for fevers. Feverfew for migraines. Boneset for bronchitis.

Blackberries in Canada. Blueberries in America. Acai berry in Brazil.

Apples grow around the world, on every continent except for Antarctica.

Most mosses can be eaten raw. _You could waste water and clean them of bugs, or you could have some extra protein!_

Arrowroot. St John’s wort. Cattail. Daylily. Sheep sorrel. Desert amaranth. Date palm.

Lance’s head is spinning. Who let so many plants exist at once?

“Now, aloe vera is the real king of plants here in this bunker.” Beau holds up his potted aloe like a proud parent holding their toddler. “Bug bites, burns, constipation, wounds, sprains, general skin care. It’s got you covered. You can even make it into tea. One of the aloe vera species, at least. The other is toxic. Don’t make tea from it, you’ll shit your guts out. Trust me.” Lance winces and tries to banish the mental image. “And, if you want your skin to keep its youthful glow, aloe is the way to go. None of that processed dermatology crap; they’re just selling products. Buy one of these plants and you’ll get better results.”

Beau moves to the tables lining the walls, most are covered and have yellow warning labels. He tells the trainees to never eat anything they aren’t completely sure won’t make them ill. If they look anything like the plants on these tables: leave them well enough alone. He lets them crowd around the domed cases containing strange mushrooms and innocent looking plants.

A small amount of wolfsbane can kill an adult within four hours, the Ainu used it to hunt bears.

Doll’s eyes has a sedative effect on cardiac muscles, effectively stopping the heart and starving the body of oxygen.

Castor plants produce ricin, one raw seed is enough to kill a human. But the death only comes after two days of convulsive agony.

Do not mistake pokeberries for blueberries. A handful is enough to kill you.

The name death cap isn’t for show. Within six hours of consumption, bloody diarrhoea follows, then organ failure and total nervous shut down. The amanita family of mushrooms are just as notorious. 

Poison oak. Lantana. Pangi. Trumpet vine. Jack-in-the-pulpit. Cowhage.

Beau concludes an overly cheery speech about the poisons HTUV has sanctioned for use by its agents (cyanide, arsenic, ricin, abrin, and a worrying number of household cleaning products) by handing around a handful of bitter almonds and telling the candidates to smell them, but don’t eat them. Then he puts on a pair of thick blue gloves and hands around a wilted cherry leaf, like the one in the frame, telling the trainees to take a sniff of it and not to touch it. Lance doesn’t smell anything, just leaf.

Beau asks them if anyone found anything strange.

“Yeah,” says Tristan, to Lance’s left, “them and the almonds smelled the same.” Beau looks at Tristan and gives him a knowing grin that twists up his scar.

“Congratulations, McFord,” he says, “you’re a part of one third of the population who can smell cyanide.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dang tris, u got a powerful sniffer there, doubt it'll ever come into play in your line of work or anything  
> had Way Too Much fun looking up poisons and their effect on the body, it's v cool learning about how they interfere with enzymatic activity and how that leads to a chain reaction in the body
> 
> i feel like i should establish that the plants have special domes that control humidity, pressure, light etc so they can all grow in the same environment


	7. Phase II - (part iii)

The first week of Phase II passed by slower than Phase I’s. Beau had a slow way of talking, ensuring all he said was taken in before beginning a new topic. They continued to train at the mock track, often accompanied by a small crowd of onlookers. The crowd would holler and wolf whistle when a man took his shirt off.

When it happened to Tristan his ears turned bright red and he put his sticky, damp shirt right back on. To the onlooker’s absolute devastation. Jesse had then shouted at him from the top of the climbing frame to take his shirt off, telling him ‘his tits were too great to be hidden’. Lance had heard the crowd cackle then and Tristan flipped Jesse off, keeping his shirt on. 

Lance was handed a small handbook for intermediate Italian, which he was expected to read during off-time. Then he would have a five-minute one-on-one conversation session with Cabo in Italian. Cabo would then pick apart Lance’s accent and dialect, which was meant to be vaguely northern, and give Lance feedback.

During one of the sessions Lance had asked Cabo how many languages he spoke, because Lance was sure he’d heard French, Spanish, Portuguese, and Russian from sessions before his. Cabo had shrugged and told him if it was spoken on the European continent, then he probably knew it.

Beau would take the trainees deep into the bayou in the airboats, where he would show them how to properly walk in the swamp without drowning or pissing off the wildlife. Lance quickly understood why the new uniforms had been handed out too, as the long, waterproof articles of clothing kept him dry during both heavy rainfall and while he trekked through waist deep water.

The first time they’d ventured into the swamp, Beau had them follow him on a wooden plank walkway in single file. He kept a steady pace so to not unbalance the line and would point out Louisianan wildlife to the group, yelling about their scarcity and how thoroughly they could fuck you up, should you trifle with them. Lance made a mental note not to go near any alligator snapping turtles. And cottonmouths. And bears. Really just every animal he sees.

Lance slipped off the plank during that first walk, his left foot submerging past the top of his boot and murky, green swamp water had surged in, much to his disgust. He would have fallen in further had Jesse not caught him by the crook of his arm. There’d been no time to empty the boot, and for the next three hours Lance made a lovely, wet-mud squelching sound.

* * *

There were no calendars kept in the area and none of the camp’s staff would give Lance the date, for some reason, but he assumed it was the weekend when they were given the time to call home.

Once again, the trainees were reminded of the disparity between Blue Marsh and Steel Jaw when Beau showed them the ‘call room’; a single, jerry-rigged payphone slapped onto the side of the main building. According to Beau it had character, Lance just thinks it's a bit janky.

Tristan, with a tight expression, had asked Beau if he could make his calls in town. Beau had shaken his head; Tristan would have to make his calls in camp, just like everyone else. Lance remembers the way Tristan looked at the phone, like a sailor bracing for the wave to hit.

* * *

“Hey, dad.”

_Afternoon, Lance, how’s Second Phase been treating you?_

“It’s been about a week and I’m more bug bites than person.” His dad chuckles.

_It’s not the most pleasant environment to work in, I remember that much. Who’s the head instructor there? I imagine it’s changed from the twenty-five odd years from my time._

“Beau Johnson, probably in his sixties, has a facial scar.” The elder Sterling makes a surprised sound.

_Special Agent Johnson’s still alive? Well how about that. I’d figured since Wells was an instructor, he was dead. Guess not._

“What do you mean, dad?”

_Oh, those two were partners, active field agents, during my time at HTUV. I was told there was an accident of some sort, they got stranded in the Philippines for a time. I’d assumed one of them had died, and the other retired. It’s usually how it goes._

“Huh…” Lance bites his lip and tries to remember if either of them had mentioned the other.

_So how has your Italian been progressing? Any luck with the dialects?_

There was only one phone, and fifty people wanting to call someone, so Lance didn’t get very long to speak with his dad. It was over too quickly. He gave his father a rushed goodbye, promising to call next week, when Rashia ended the connection and brought up the next candidate.

Lance was going to walk back to the centre of the platform, where lunch was being served, but when he saw Tristan walk up to the payphone, like a prisoner being marched to the guillotine, Lance couldn’t not stay and listen. Trying to seem blasé, Lance rounds a corner, leaning against the wall.

There was the sound of buttons being pressed and then a heavy sigh, then ringing. Someone picks up on the fifth tone. Lance can only just hear a tinny voice.

_Evening, Mcford residence._

“Hi, Kyle, it’s me.”

_Oh. I’ll get mum then._

“You don’t want to talk?”

There’s no response. A couple breaths in silence pass before he hears a woman’s voice from the other end.

_Tristan._

“Donna.”

_It’s late, why’re you calling._

“It’s only afternoon here, and it’s our phone-in day.”

_Right. You’re still there. Thought I told you not to call me, unless to say you’re coming back home._

“You’re not the only one in the house, and you don’t tell me what to do anymore.” Tristan’s voice was starting to take on a steely tone.

_Oh, you made well sure of that. Carting yourself over to America of all places. What were you thinking, Tristan._

“Not this again, mum.” Tristan sounds weary, like he’s had this conversation too many times before, and he knows how it ends. “I wanted to talk with my brothers. Where’s Kyle and Danny?”

_They’re not talking to you._

“Because you won’t let them.”

_Because their big brother ran away to the States after_ punching their father.

“He swung the first bloody punch! You were there!” Tristan’s just barely yelling, Lance sees heads turn towards the source of the noise.

_None of that would have happened if you’d stayed away from the military and took a job in town!_

“So it’s my fault I was threatened with a beating and cut off from my family. That it? Fuck’s sake why do I still call you! Put Danny on the phone.”

_You stay away from those boys. I don’t want you poisoning them with your influence. Don’t call again, Tristan, if you’re going to continue playing soldier boy in the US. When you’ve failed at that, just like everything else you've tried, when you’re ready to grow up and be a man for once, you better have a moving fucking apology for me and your father._

She hangs up before Tristan can retort, and he is left breathing deeply through his nose to ease his temper. Tristan growls and slams the phone back into the holder. Lance hears Rashida yell at him to not do that. Tristan stomps away with a muttered _whatever_.

Lance’s heart beats quickly against his chest. Holy shit.

“You can go now too, Sterling.” Calls Rashida, who watches him as he skulks back to their table.

Unfortunately, Tristan got to there first. He’s glaring at his hands, picking his cuticles. When Lance sits down, giving an excuse that he was at the outhouse, Tristan squints at him with suspicion.

“You alright, dude?” Asks Jesse, looking at Tristan with concern.

“M’fine.” He says, voice tense.

“You sure?”

“Just leave it, Jesse.” There’s a pause. “Please.”

Everyone seems on edge for a while, Moira leaves to make her call. Lance eventually goes to grab his Italian book after finishing lunch, a cup of gumbo. When he returns Moira’s finished her call. She seemed to be waiting for him, so that everyone was there.

“So, I’d talked to Rashida after my call about contacting Piotr, and other trainees who drop out and get hired by HTUV.”

“And?” Says Rachel.

“She handed me a number to call and to ask for the desired person’s full name when the receiver picked up. If Piotr’s still working at his apprenticeship, and isn’t too busy, he should be able to talk with us.” Moira smiles but then it falls, “only thing is, I can’t call both him and my family. I can maybe do it alternating weeks, though…”

She looks up at her friends expectantly, who only mutter excuses; Lance has to call his dad; Rachel, her parents; Jesse, her aunt. It falls quiet again, they hope Moira takes up the job instead of them. Then Tristan speaks up.

“I can call him, Moira.”

“You sure? Don’t you have people back home you want to call?” Tristan grimaces and Lance remembers the conversation not too long ago.

“It’s alright. I’d rather talk with him, anyways.” Moira smiles again, telling everyone to write something short that Tristan can relay to Piotr, obviously relieved she wouldn’t have to choose between her friend and family. Jesse watches Tristan, she looks worried.

* * *

It rains in the bayou. Constantly. A biblical, lukewarm reckoning in the Atchafalaya Basin the likes of which poor, city boy Lance had never seen. Thick sheets of pelting water that plasters Lance’s jacket to his skin. Rivulets of rain stream down the front of his cap, getting in his mouth and trickling down his shirt.

Him, Tristan, and Moira are in a team of three during their fourth week of Phase II. The specialties were grouped up and sent into the basin for survival training. Lance holds a rifle with no magazine and has a strange attachment at the end of the barrel. He stands sentry while Tristan is wedged awkwardly under the dashboard of an old truck, and Moira sets up mock-long range communication equipment.

As Rashia ferried them to the water-level platform, where they would carry out the tasks, she described the scenario to them; they were special agents on a mission, stranded in Western Asia. Comms were down and enemies hot on their trail. To survive the ordeal, they must defend themselves from hostiles while re-establishing communication with HQ and acquire an escape vehicle.

Only problem was Lance had no idea what the hostiles were, Moira’s equipment had been waterlogged, and the truck refused to start. Lance could hear Tristan’s muttered curses over the rain. He’d taken his hood and hat off to properly work at the truck. His hair was plastered to his forehead, making him pull off a very convincing drowned rat impression. Moira quietly watched the rear while she dried the equipment with her clothes or was trying to, at least.

“Hey Tristan.” Says Lance, trying to alleviate his anxious boredom.

“What.” Tristan grunts as he pulls out small wires and components from the exposed steering column.

“Shouldn’t this be going any faster? Don’t you just tap two wires together and the car goes vroom?” Lance knew that it was more complicated than that, from his dad yelling at movies, but nothing brought him more delight right now than pushing Tristan’s buttons. Tristan makes an annoyed sound.

“Why don’t you do this then, and I’ll stand around and do nothing, yeah?”

Moira sighs and rolls her eyes, this isn’t the first squabble she’s been witness to.

“I don’t know… It’s pretty difficult being the first line of defence between my teammates and a violent, horrific death.” Says Lance, looking at Tristan’s knees with a faux-solemn expression. 

“Boys…”

“You’re hilarious Sterling, maybe you should be HTUV’s first clown. They’ll send you to birthday parties for a mafia boss’s kid; make ‘em laugh so hard they turn themself in.”

“I’d be doing the country a service, you on the other hand-.”

“Lance! Tristan! Hostile!” Moira barks, scrambling to stand and retreat from a slowly advancing drone. It has a large circular disc and two small barrels on either side of it. Whirring fans keep it suspended in the air. Lance utters a curse and aims the gun. He pulls the trigger, both the end of the barrel and the disc flash red. The drone stops its advance and quietly floats away, the three are alone once again.

“I take it that’s what you’re shooting.” Says Moira, walking around the truck to Lance.

“Nifty little thing.” Mutters Tristan, who had slid out from under the dash, staring out to where the drone had retreated. Then he returns to hot-wiring the truck.

Reinvigorated, heart pounding, Lance begins to walk along the perimeter of the small platform, staring out into the trees. Watching for more alien-blue lights amidst the grey mist.

Moira moves into the truck for protection and to better dry the equipment.

Tristan shocks himself with the starter wire, his _fuck_ ringing out into the bayou.

The drones seem to increase in number as the minutes pass, though they only take one carefully aimed shot from Lance to stop them from advancing. Lance doesn’t know what’s going on in the truck. There’s been no sound of celebration from either of them yet, so he doubts it’s good.

“Hey, uh, everything alright in there?”

“Oh, it’s Mickey Mouse.” Grunts Tristan. Lance has a feeling it doesn’t mean anything good. Moira sighs, frustrated.

“I’ve got all the equipment dried off, but some of these components can’t get wet under any circumstances. I don’t think I’ll be able to set this up unless replacements are just hanging around in the bayou.” She stares hard at the gutted shell of a receiver, like she’s willing the parts to materialise in it.

“What’re you missing?” responds Tristan, looking up from his work. Lance only really knows that batteries keeps machines going, and it’s bad to get it wet; so the converters, coils, and stabilisers Tristan and Moira were talking about had no meaning to him. Lance decides to make himself useful and keep shooting drones.

Eventually there was a new drone advancing towards them every five seconds. And these ones could jerk suddenly to the side and needed to be shot twice to be stopped. Lance was getting a bad feeling about what would happen should the drones actually use those barrels.

“Are you two getting any closer to being done?” As if on cue, the truck roars to life. “I’ll take that as a yes.” Lance clambers into the bed of the truck. He knocks on the back window and Moira slides it open.

“Any luck with comms?”

  
“Piss all. I’ve half a thought to connect this to the car battery and see what happens, because I’m all out of ideas.” The trucks lurches as it reverses off the platform and onto the wide wooden walkway. The drones stutter, their discs flare green and begin flying faster towards them. Lance leans on the roof of the truck and keeps shooting while Tristan yells at him to move his legs so he can see where he’s going.

Moira makes a happy noise as the radio makes an awful burst of static.

“Oh, so now it works.” Remarks Tristan, focus on the walkway behind them.

“It’s probably programmed to turn on when the car gets started; I saw some HTUV tech spliced in.” Says Moira with a wide grin. She turns it to the correct frequency and presses a button on the receiver.

“This is field team nine-nine. The yellow bird escapes an orange cat. HQ come in. Over.”

“This is HQ, nine-nine, what’s your status? Over.” A heavily filtered voice comes in, Lance can barely understand it, but Moira seems unperturbed.

“Surrounded by hostiles and making a slow retreat. Environment is difficult to traverse but all agents are well. Over.”

“Good. Advance to the end of the walkway, send your coordinates to area eighty-one’s frequency and activate the emergency beacon. Over.”

Moira sends an affirmative, muttering to herself a sequence of numbers. Lance shoots a drone that almost hits the front of the truck.

It’s a tense minute as Tristan manages to creep along to the end of the walkway, Lance shooting the rapidly advancing drones as quickly as he could. Moira flips a switch and holds down a small green button. She turns on the receiver again and repeats their pretend coordinates to a silent channel. There’s a pause, and then Beau’s voice crackles over the radio.

“Good work, you three. Rashida will come back over to collect y’all. If Tristan could kindly drive the truck back to the platform, that’d be great.” There’s whoops and sighs of relief all around.

“Wonder what those drones would’ve done if they’d have gotten too close.” Say Tristan, eyes trained on the path ahead. 

“Nothing serious, I hope.” Replies Moira.

Rashia appears out of the swamp, congratulating them on passing their first field test.

“I thought there weren’t any proper tests at Steel Jaw.” Says Tristan, frowning. Rashia shakes her head.

“There won’t be any written exams. Field tests are more like experiments to determine group cohesion. Your success won’t be recorded as extensively as your interpersonal relationships and teamwork skills.” She replies.

For the first time, it hits Lance that he can’t make it without a partner. He couldn’t have done what Moira or Tristan had done alone, and neither could they. Cabo’s words to him ring out in Lance’s head, and the fantasy of a lone, Bond-esque Agent Sterling begins to fade.

* * *

“So, what’d Piotr say?” Says Moira, eagerly, as Tristan sits down at their table, the week after their field test.

“No, he’s not made any tanks, yes, the coffee’s awful, and yes, his apprenticeship’s going well.” Reports Tristan. “Actually, he’d said he might finish it early: with his prior experience he’s got more knowledge and inherent skill than some of the people working there.”

“Hell yeah.” Moira pumps a fist and takes a huge bite of jambalaya, “knew he had it in him.” She says around the food. Rachel makes a disgusted sound and turns to Tristan, asking him to pass on her congratulations for next week.

Lance, and possibly others, have noticed Tristan was happier after a call with Piotr than with his family. He jokes a bit more and doesn’t shoot Lance too many dirty looks. Then again, Lance also hasn’t been projecting his despair over being in a team onto the guy through ribbing and being a nuisance. Piotr was the first person, after Jesse, he would willingly talk to. Maybe it was the shared engineer specialty.

Lance finds himself falling into a pattern vaguely like the one at Blue Marsh; wake to a loud sound, morning training, shower, operator classes, lunch, then Beau’s training that covers everything from shelter construction to wound treating to knife combat. The man is terrifyingly fast with a machete.

Beau shows them how to orientate themselves with a map and compass, as well as how to find north by the shadow of a stick or by an analogue pocket watch. He also teaches them how to use the environment to navigate.

“Moss doesn’t grow on just one side of a tree, but it does grow more lush facing south in the Northern Hemisphere. Same with growth rings on trees; the rings are further apart facing the equator and closer together facing north. All of that is the opposite for below the equator.”

Beau had then pulled out star charts of both hemispheres, teaching the candidates how to navigate by the stars and moon.

“When you’re in the Northern Hemisphere, always look for Polaris. Find the pattern of Ursa Major in our erratic night sky, and she will point to the tail of Ursa Minor. Where our north star shines.”

They’re taught how to build swamp beds, with emphasis being put on building a sturdy, elevated structure above the damp ground, and a reliable cover. Xiao had fallen asleep on his and, as a testament to his construction skills, didn’t fall into the swamp. 

For a handful of eventful evenings, the instructors show them how to pilot the air boats, someone goes too hard on the throttle and almost flips the thing. Lance tries to race Tristan but neither Cabo nor Rashida seemed agreeable to the concept.

They’re drilled on venomous and poisonous animals for hours; shown how to treat a snake bite, and how to use poison dart frog toxins to their advantage, without killing themselves. _Red on yellow, you’re a dead fellow. Red on black, friend of Jack._

It’s Dr Clemons and Dr Pascal that teach them advanced first aid. Clemons covers shock, hypothermia, and breaks, while Pascal goes over electrocutions, drownings, and gunshot wounds. Lance doesn’t mind being taught by either of them, both being attractive and intelligent people with pleasant accents. He may have winked a bit too suggestively at Clemons, but she didn’t seem to mind if her smile and raised eyebrow was anything to go by.

During morning training, Lance flexes for the lovely ladies behind the fence, abdominal and pectoral muscles _just exquisite_ in the morning sun. The crowd goes absolutely wild. Tristan, shirt still on, smacks him over the back of his head. 

* * *

“How long have we even been here? Four weeks? Five?” Says Moira as they shower afterwards.

“Beats me.” Replies Jesse, lathering soap across her toned arms. “Wonder if anything’s gonna happen at the end, or if they’re gonna performance drop a couple people, then send us on our way.”

“Did Beau ever mention it when he talked us through the schedule? It feels so long ago, I can’t remember.” Says Rachel, in the stall over.

“No clue, there was a lot of stress on survival though. So maybe some kind of camping trip?” Responds Jesse.

“Where is the next phase, too? I don’t know if I can handle another nineteen-hour coach ride and still be sane.” Gripes Moira, turning off her tap.

“What, a healthy diet of gas station pringles and a whole day of sitting on your arse not good enough for you?” Remarks Tristan, who’s waiting on a stall outside.

“That was a joke. You just made a joke.” Says Moira, poking her head out of the stall. Tristan scoffs.

“I make plenty of jokes. You just don’t get them.”

Moira snorts. “No, half the things you say either sound morose or vaguely threatening.”

“Oi.”

“She ain’t lying, dude.” Says Jesse.

“Hmph.”

“There’s the grumpy McFord I know.”

“Can you all stop talking? I’m trying to shower.” Says the occupant of the fourth stall.

* * *

Beau introduces them to the art of freestyle wrestling, a favourite sport of his. It’s not as hectic or potentially fatal as the circle fights Wells had them do during Limbo, and the cost of failure is much less severe. Lance enjoys the thrill of competition, as well as the physical challenge.

He is once again reminded of how weirdly strong Tristan is when they’re put against each other, and Tristan manages to just _heave_ Lance up into the air, and onto his back for a pin. Beau hollers about how Tristan should’ve been born a Louisianan; they could’ve had a wrestler like him this season.

Lance doesn’t know how long it’s been, but considering he’s phoned home five times now, he’d say they’re nearing their last week. He can’t remember what Beau had said about it. Jesse and Moira’s conversation in the showers unearthed an unease that only grew stronger the more he realised how close they were to the end. Talking with his dad about it hadn’t helped either.

“Hey, dad, do you remember what happened during the last week of Phase Two?”

His dad makes a thoughtful sound.

_It has almost been six weeks for you, huh?_

“Well?”

_Hmmm. I remember, well, I can’t really say. Just that some people got performance dropped. Don’t worry, Lance, you’ll get through it._

* * *

It’s the growing anxiety that makes Lance’s sleep shallow and fringed with dread. It’s this light sleep that wakes him up one night to an odd smell that sticks to the back of his throat. He cracks his eyes open to darkness and tries to stand, but his knees buckle, and he falls to the floor. With a head that grows heavier each passing second, and eyelids that droop further and further down, he sees a dark figure coming towards him.

Then it’s black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lance's dad legally can't tell him anything that'll let him have more preparation during training, as much as he wishes he could, this part of the phase isn't pleasant
> 
> i Have to be honest, it was so much fun writing the dialogue in Tristan's phone call  
> s/o to the SiD discord server, who helped brainstorm Tristan's family
> 
> cabo, to lance: just learn every language. is not hard.
> 
> jesse, likes fucking with tristan and is in no way attracted to him because Girls: aha show your tits king ;)


	8. Phase II - (part iv)

* * *

**Day One**

Lance wakes up with an awful headache and the memory of an airboat, whirring along the river. He tries to swallow but his mouth is dry, his throat convulsing in protest. Lance slowly sits up and looks around blearily. He’s on a wooden platform, one of hundreds spread across the Atchafalaya Basin. And he’s alone.

Beside him is a sack. He drags it towards him with clumsy fingers, the drug used to sedate Lance still lingering in his veins. Inside was his jacket, boots, and hat. Along with a laminated map and two ration bars. As he pulls the map out, a folded slip of paper falls into his lap. It takes a second for his eyes to focus on the words, and for them to be comprehended.

**_Trainee_** _Lance Sterling, **Candidate ID** 034,_

_Do not be alarmed; you are in no immediate danger. As a part of your survival training and conclusion for Phase II, you must complete this week-long excursion._

_You have seven days to find your way back to Steel Jaw Barrow. Like the field test you completed two weeks ago, drones will act as the hostiles. Only this time you have no way to fight them. You must avoid the drones, there will be consequences should they find you. You are encouraged to find and work with other trainees in the area._

_Hunt, build shelter, forage, boil water. Do whatever is required to keep your body functioning during this time. Understand you are not completely alone, and we are monitoring the wellbeing of all trainees, and can easily find you should injury occur. We have also left deposits of items scattered throughout the basin. We ask that if you find one of these, to not take more than what you urgently need._

_Understand that failure to complete the mission within the time period will result in a performance drop, removing you from the selection course._

_Good luck,_

**_Beau Johnson, Head Instructor of Steel Jaw Barrow, HTUV_ **

Lance reads the letter again, and again.

_Fuck. My head hurts._

His hands are clammy, too. He feels colder than he should be. Lance knows he has to get moving. He can’t fail now, he’s survived Limbo; he can survive this. But Lance also knows he’s more of a danger to himself in this state. He nibbles on a ration bar, willing saliva into his mouth.

The sun is directly overhead when Lance can stand without vertigo sweeping through him. Shivering, Lance pulls on his boots, hat, and jacket. He stares at the map and realises it’s best to wait for nightfall, where he can find north by the stars and sleep off the drugs.

It’s not of much help anyways; covering the Atchafalaya Basin in its entirety. There are twenty, centimetre-long squares dividing the map; one centimetre to every twelve miles. Small, blue-grey lines mark out rivers, a white dot marking his location, and a black mark for Steel Jaw. The distance between them is worrying. Strange dots, like dirt spatters, cover the whole map. Lance guesses no one was joking when they said it’s the largest fucking swamp in America. Wetland. Whatever.

_How am I getting out of this?_

Desperation begins to tinge his thoughts.

Checking the sack for anything he’d missed, Lance finds a small tarp, large enough for one person, as well as a small tin canteen. There’s no water in it, instead a small flint and steel pack falls out. Lance cheers at the find. 

Scavenging around the immediate area turns up freshly fallen driftwood and weeds that grow above the water line, both dry enough to burn. Lance slowly sets up a small campfire on the ground near the platform. Lighting it takes longer than he’s proud to admit, fine motor skills still managing to escape him. He uses the note as kindling, and watches it burn.

Lance collects water from the slow-moving river using the sack, skimming along the top as best he can. He holds it over the canteen and lets it filter out. Then he sets the canteen on a small, handmade frame over the fire. He takes a moment to sit down again, exhausted from the action.

The sun begins to crest the trees ahead, Lance takes small bites from his ration bar and downs the cooled water in three large gulps. He fills the canteen again and lets the fire burn itself out after boiling the river water.

With regained strength, Lance builds a one-man shelter. Dragging three relatively dry and strong branches towards a waist high stump, he secures the longest of the branches on top of it. Then Lance drapes the tarp along the top branch and uses the remaining two to secure the it at the bottom. He covers the ground of the shelter with leafy branches for insulation. It’s dark by the time he’s finished, the creatures of the swamp beginning their evening chorus.

Up above, Lance can see the Big Dipper. Following the bottom edge of the scoop, he finds the tail of the Little Dipper, where Polaris shines. Using his hand, Lance draws an imaginary line from Polaris down to the horizon, pointing northwards. Lance marks north with a stick and a handful of rocks, forming an arrow. He can’t look at the map currently; it’s too dark to do anything but wait for daybreak.

Lance shimmies into his shelter, cursing when a stick jabs into his side. He pillows his head with his hands; stray leaves tickling his nose. As the anaesthetic is metabolised by his system, the feeling of weakness is replaced with a stone of dread in his guts. Lance closes his eyes; it’s the closest thing he’ll get to sleep tonight.

Many miles away, a Thai woman sits in a room in the white and green cabin, surrounded by monitors. Each sectioned up to show fifty lost and disorientated trainees, some are pacing, some trying to sleep. Yasmin watches all of them, making small notes in shorthand. She’s not just the mechanic of Steel Jaw; to her side hangs a Ph.D. in behavioural psychology.

Behind her stands Beau, who watches the monitors with a focused expression.

“All candidates have recovered from the effects of the sedatives, no adverse reactions. We’ll put the airboats into position. McFord and Sterling are closer to each other and further from the other trainees, like you’d wanted.” She reports. Beau makes a sound in the back of his throat.

“Good. Better chance of them becoming a team.”

“Or for them to have a catastrophic fight and try to kill each other in the basin.” She replies, “my drones might not make it there in time if McFord starts holding Sterling under the water.” Beau lets out a dark chuckle.

“Lance can handle himself in a fight. If you want, keep a drone close for when the fight breaks out.”

“So you know there’s going to be a physical confrontation. Why bother putting both candidates at risk? Just recommend different partners for them. Sterling gets on well with Callaghan and McFord’s friends with Yamamoto.” Beau shakes his head.

“Moira’s not agent material, no matter how hard she’s been trying and how well she gets along with the others. And Jesse’s projected to be partnered up with Rachel Alverez anyways, _they_ already have a good relationship. No point in disrupting anything just yet.

“And, I trust Joy’s judgement,” he continues, “if she thinks they’ll make good partners, then we may as well try to end this pointless snipping between them; get a proper relationship set up. McFord and Sterling are hot-headed, and stubborn; I think they need the stress of this field test to show their true colours to each other, whatever that may be.” 

Yasmin concedes to his words, sighing. She stares up at the panels where two people sleep in small, handmade shelters. She hopes Beau’s right. Those two are the furthest out from Steel Jaw. Hopefully, they live up to expectations. Whatever the outcome, she’ll be watching. Beau leaves a steaming mug of black coffee at her desk before he leaves. She takes a sip and settles in for a long night.

**Day Two**

It’s still dark when Lance wakes; the blue hour when the sun has yet to rise but the sky begins to lighten in anticipation. He makes out large buzzing insects amongst the reeds by the river. It didn’t rain last night, thankfully. Groaning, Lance shimmies out of the shelter, dragging along sticks that had pressed into his stomach as he slept. He thinks about eating the second ration bar, but eventually decides against it.

Standing in front of the arrow he made last night, Lance inspects the map with fresh eyes. It’s better than he’d originally thought, what with it giving his and Steel Jaw’s locations. He sips on water to ease his grumbling stomach, and the framework of a plan forms in his head.

Seven days of travel, approximately one-hundred-eighty miles to cover. If he makes thirty miles today, and twenty-five miles each day after that, he’ll make it. Easy. Lance tries not to think about water crossing, weather, animals, potential injuries, or drones halting his progress. It’ll ruin the hopeful mood.

Lance carefully shakes out his tarp and packs it away in the sack, along with his canteen, flint and steel, and ration bar. Map in hand, sack under his arm, Lance sets out into the swamp. The sun rises to watch.

Lance hates the swamp. His socks itch, his mouth is fuzzy from no brushing, and he’s hungry. The bugs are remorseless as they feast on him and Lance is wary to touch any branches, lest they be the perch for some vengeful creature. But still, he treks on. The humidity presses on his shoulders and begins to feel suffocating as midday draws near. It’s when his vision begins to feel fuzzy along the edges does Lance find a spot to sit and rest underneath shade.

He pops a third of the ration bar into his mouth, sipping some water to make it more edible. Lance groans as he swallows. He’s still hungry but not painfully so anymore. He leans back against the tree, eyes closed. Enjoying the cool breeze.

Then he hears the whirring of fans behind him.

_Drone_.

Resisting the urge to jolt up and run, Lance slowly creeps down so he’s laying on the ground, hidden by the brush. A millisecond passes in an hour, then Lance gets a good close look of the drone’s underside as it passes above him. It doesn’t see him. He _hopes_ it doesn’t see him. Lance holds his breath, heart hammering against his ribcage.

The drone flies out of view, and the sound of its fans slowly fades. When Lance can’t hear it anymore, he counts to thirty before slowly, slowly sitting up again. Poking his head above the ground-layer brush, he sees nothing. He looks around carefully, senses straining for any sign of the drone. It’s gone. For now. He lets out a heavy breath, standing up.

_Six more days of this. Great._

Lance walks around the tree he was leaning on to look for any signs of the drone, still on edge from the encounter. He finds something better. Nailed to the tree is a sack like his own, HTUV logo stamped on its front. Upon opening, Lance finds it’s full of small, metal compasses. If the drone wasn’t lurking in the area, Lance would’ve started yelling in jubilation. He settles for a hushed _yes_ under his breath. Taking one, only one, he places it on top of his map, orientating himself north. Then, Lance heads out into the swamp once again, more cautiously than this morning.

It’s an hour or so into the trek does he hear the crunching of foliage to his right. Lance stops in his tracks, snapping his head towards the sound. Ten or so metres away he sees someone walking through the swamp, wearing the same uniform as him.

“Hey.” He starts, trying to keep his voice quiet. The person keeps walking. “Hey!” Lance says, louder. He winces when it echoes into the swamp, but the person stops and looks at him. Lance makes a gesture to come towards him. It’s as the stranger moves closer does Lance realise with a rush of frustration that it’s _Tristan fucking McFord_. Of course, who else would it have been. Tristan seems to share the sentiment.

“Oh. It’s you.” He says in greeting.

“Hi to you too.” Lance replies. Tristan sighs.

“Take it we’ve got to work together to get out of this now, huh?”

“Looks like it.” Tristan makes a sound, then sets his face in a resigned expression.

“So be it.”

The first three hours of their tentative partnership had passed without incident. Neither man wishing to start a conversation, neither wanting to stop walking. The only sound accompanying them was the crunch and squelch of the swamp as they walked, and their quick breathing. Strangely enough, it’s Tristan who starts talking.

“So…”

“So…?”

“What’s your plan for, y’know, getting to Steel Jaw.”

“Today I’m trying to keep this main river to my left, cross it tonight where it breaks into channels, then make camp for tomorrow. You?”

“Why tonight? It’ll be safer if we cross it tomorrow when we’re rested and there’s, y’know, daylight so we don’t mistake an alligator for a log.”

“We? This is my plan. If you don’t like it, waste time waiting for daylight and have a good sleep.” Lance sneers. Tristan frowns.

“We’re supposed to work together, Sterling.”

“Yeah. Supposed to, I’m not too keen on working with someone who wants to contradict everything I say.”

“I’m correcting a dangerous plan. And it’s not like I’m too happy being stuck with some show pony who spends every waking hour trying to poke fun at me.”

“I’m not a show pony. This is a competition to show who’s the best and that’s what I am.” Lance jabs his thumb at his chest for emphasis, Tristan rolls his eyes and scoffs.

“Oh, there you go again with being the _best of the best_.” Tristan says the last part with a sneer.

Lance is frowning, and about to open his mouth in retort when Tristan sees something behind him. Then he pushes Lance down by the shoulders.

“Shit. Get down, now.” They’re standing in knee deep water, there’s no choice but to submerge their bodies in the cold, muddy sludge so only their faces are exposed.

“Drone.” Whispers Tristan, but it comes out more a hiss.

“Yeah I can fucking see that.” Lance hisses back. They both seal their mouths shut as the drone becomes more visible. Were they too late? “Did it see us?”

“Shhh.”

The drone is very close now, Lance breathes heavily through his nose and tried not to think about the muck in his ear canals. Then the damned thing tilts down to look straight at them.

“Down. Now.” Hisses Tristan and all Lance can do is take a deep breath in and plug his nose before going fully under.

He screws his eyes shut, not wanting to open his eyes in these waters. He thinks he can feel the surface being agitated by the whirring fans.

His lungs are burning from how quickly his heart beats, and from the strain of keeping his body under.

_Please leave, please leave, please leave._

Lance is suddenly yanked out of the water by Tristan. 

“Is it gone?” Lance splutters, wiping muck out of his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, I think so.” Responds Tristan, but he sounds choked up. Lance looks to see Tristan furiously blinking, the white of his eyes almost brown from the water. His nose is weeping, and his hands hover uselessly by his face.

“You opened your eyes to watch it go? Dude, you’re gonna get an eye infection or something.” Lance exclaims, rummaging through his dropped sack for his canteen.

“It was that or just sit and feel for when the thing left.” Replies Tristan, taking the canteen and tilting his head to the side to flush his eyes. “Bugger this fucking stings.”

“You’ve probably got worms now.” Lance remarks, jokingly.

“Shut up.” Tristan responds, but there’s no bite to it.

They reach where the river divides long before nightfall, to both men’s relief. Tristan’s eyes are still red from before and Lance feels dried muddy sediment covering his body. The water sluggishly moves along, Lance prods a stick into the water, it’s almost the length of his body and is completely submerged. There’s little resistance from the current.

“It looks slow, and deep, enough for us to just swim through.” Says Lance, Tristan makes a noise of agreement.

“Our bags’ll get soaked though. Should get rid of any perishables before going in.” He remarks.

As they wolf down their impromptu lunch, Lance realises Tristan still had both ration bars. He looks at the man and notices how haggard he looks, hair stringy from the mud, and dark smudges under his eyes from no food. Lance doesn’t know what to say that won’t start a fight, so he stays quiet. Tristan breaks off half of one bar and passes it to Lance.

“Here.”

“Nah, man, it’s alright.”

“Just take it, Sterling.”

“I’m fine, Tristan. Don’t worry.” Tristan shrugs and pops the bar into his mouth. Lance hears Tristan grumble _not worryin’ bout ya_ as he chews, and grins.

Slowly, with their boots off and sacks cinched tight with their shoelaces, the two swim across the first of two channels. The water is an opaque brown and Lance’s hands disappear less than a foot deep. He keeps his mouth firmly shut, ensuring his head stays high above the water. As he reaches the far bank and tries to heave himself up, his hand sink deep into the wet, loamy soil and Lance makes a noise of disgust. Tristan chuckles and uses the riverbank plants to hoist himself up.

The second channel has a slightly faster current that pushes them further down the bank than Lance would like. Nonetheless, they make it across the next river without incident. Bar the time Lance thought he saw a suspicious looking shape in the water heading towards Tristan. He’d yelled at Tristan to watch out, only for Tristan to look across and tell Lance he better get his eyes checked, because it’s a fucking log.

‘Please no crocodiles’ was the mantra that gets Lance across both channels. 

On the opposite bank from where they’d started, Tristan builds a tepee fire with moss and bark scrapings as kindling. Lance collects water for their canteens, setting them on top of the fire to boil. Together they build swamp beds from the surrounding branches and drape the tarps over them for cover. He looks over the map as Tristan strips off his shirt and jacket to dry. Lance traces his finger over the land, trying to determine the best path with the least amount of river crossing.

Night falls and Lance’s wet clothes bring about a small chill. He hears the croaking of frogs and Tristan’s quiet breathing. Lance skims the world of sleep, too uncomfortable and hyperaware to properly fall unconscious.

“They’ve teamed up.”

“Mhm, with minimal friction.”

“That friction’s going to increase as the week progresses.”

“Always does.”

**Day Three**

“I still think we should’ve turned at the weird tree.”

“Yeah, you would, wouldn’t you?” Says Lance, staring at the ground.

“The hell does that even mean?”

“How would I know?”

It’s been five, long, long hours since they set off from their camp by the bank. Each minute seems to be punctuated with an inane squabble over some inane reason. It keeps Lance’s mind off the looming deadline, but man, the guy never lets in. Always has to have the last word. Well, so does Lance.

They’re stressed, hungry and their nerves are frayed from watching for the drones. The fear of not reaching the deadline seeps from their bones. It makes them march on faster, tiring them faster. Lance is breathing in laboured pants before midday, but he swears they’ve made good distance since breaking camp. They must have.

“Lance.”

Lance keeps going, determined to reach his goal in time.

“Lance! Slow down, you’re gonna wear yourself out.”

“I’m going to reach Steel Jaw on time, with or without you.”

“Yeah, sure. But would it kill you to take a five-minute break?”

Lance is fairly sure his heart might burst in his chest at any given moment, but Tristan doesn’t need to know that. He keeps walking. Tristan grabs his arm.

“Lance, stop, fuck’s sake man.” Lance rips his arm out of Tristan’s grasp.

“What. Is it.” Lance hisses, with no small amount of venom. Tristan rears back, hands up in surrender.

“We should take a break, drink some water, make sure we’re going in the right direction. We’re both exhausted, it’d do us some good.”

Lance wants to argue, wants to prove Tristan wrong; he’s fine. But his feet are burning in his boots and his breaths aren’t deep enough anymore. He realises Tristan is right, Lance nods his head and sits down, half in defeat. Tristan gives him a handful of moss and tells him to eat up. It doesn't help his mood.

He’s still a jitter of nerves when they start back up, but he’s not on the brink of a nervous breakdown so he figures Tristan’s idea was alright enough. They have no food to ease the groaning of their stomachs, and their water supplies are running low. Talking about food only makes them hungrier, it usually ends in an argument, too.

If Lance was reading the map right, they still had over one-hundred miles to cover. It made his throat close up with dread. He can’t be dropped now. He has to keep going. When the day turns to night, and Tristan sets his bag down to set up camp, Lance kept marching, ignoring Tristan’s yells.

It ends in a yelling match, because of course it does. To hell with the drones. Lance is frustrated, afraid, and wants to keep walking, just an hour more to make up for lost time. Tristan’s tired and wants to rest, they’ve been walking the whole day and it’s getting dark, it’ll be too dangerous to travel any further.

Lance knows he’s right, again.

_God dammit_

He helps set up camp, but it’s with a tense, angry silence that they do. Lance glares into the fire, refusing to look at or talk to Tristan. He barely gets more than an hour of sleep, high strung on aggressive energy.

As the rain begins to fall, a drone is set on standby, and moves closer to the duo.

**Day Four**

They wake too early, and the day passes not unlike the previous one; with bickering that only serves to worsen their tempers, and desperately trying to ignore their hunger. Only this time, they’re accompanied by a heavy downpour. Lance tries to march the mounting anger out of his system. Unfortunately, his quick movements alerts an alligator to their presence as they near a river. It charged, full of primordial fury, mouth open. They scramble up a nearby tree to avoid the thing.

They spend an hour up there, wasting time in a tree while a six-foot alligator below bellowed for their doom. Lance could’ve made great time in the direction of Steel Jaw, instead he has to wait for some overgrown lizard to get bored of them and move on. Tristan tries to make small talk, but it falls flat in the current situation. Rain dribbles down the back of Lance’s shirt.

It eventually trundles off. Tristan and Lance delicately climb down the other side of the tree to put something between them and that scaly bastard. Lance makes a snarky remark about losing time, Tristan snips back about how he should’ve tried his luck against the croc if he was so worried about their pace.

Their bickering continues throughout the day, punctuated by silences as they avoid hovering drones and focus on crossing rivers. During midday, as the rain lets up, Tristan convinces him to take a small nap while he keeps watch. Lance complies, not because he might have blacked out for a few seconds, a good agent knows when to rest, is all.

Yet another hour, better spent walking so they can pass this _fucking field test_ , passes. Tristan resting for the second half after Lance rouses. Lance divides his focus between watching for signs of the drones and rereading the map. There’s a strange pattern of dirt spots, Lance doesn’t know if it got under the laminate during production, or if it was from one of his many adventures into the mud. Either way, he can’t seem to scratch it off with his thumbnail.

The better half of the day is spent inching their way along knee deep marshland; prodding sticks in the area around them as not to fall into a sinkhole. It’s painstaking word, but even Lance isn’t foolish enough to rush it.

Their pace picks up again as they reach the firmer ground of a bald cypress swamp. That is until, Tristan spots a drone, and they have to hide in the curve of a hollowed-out stump to wait it out. A skin coloured spider creeps along Lance’s shoulder, testing his resolve in more ways than Phase I ever could have.

He feels the eerie thing crawl up to his neck, before turning back around and going down his arm. Its delicate steps pressing against him as it moves across the back of his hand to the ground. A glint catches his eye. Lance frowns, reaching into the stump, feeling smooth plastic. Upon removing it from the stump, slowly as to not alert the drone, Lance finds a small plastic bag had been shoved into the crack. Inside was a small brass key with a familiar float connected to it. Lance’s eyes widen.

It was the key to an HTUV airboat.

Tristan gasps softly beside him, seeing Lance’s find. Lance remembers checking the map as they entered the swamp, and how he’d noted they were close to a dirt spot. Pulling out the map again, Lance places his finger on the dot. The spatters of dots are more erratic than the stars in the sky, and, disappointed, Lance chalks it up to coincidence. He tucks the plastic bag away in his jacket pocket, zipping it closed.

“What were you looking at on your map back there?” Asks Tristan some time later, when the drone had left, and they’d continued on their way.

“Nothing, in the end.” Lance replies, shrugging. They walk through the marsh, Lance’s socks have long since taken a green undertone to them.

They make camp by the riverside. As dusk falls, the croaking of frogs picks up. Lance’s stomach groans from not having eaten anything for two days. Tristan looks to the bank where the frogs lay.

“Wonder if we could gig a couple, cook ‘em over the fire.”

“You’re welcome to try.”

“Squeamish, Sterling?”

“Just tired, McFord.”

Tristan rolls his eyes before getting up and gathering some sticks and a rock with a flat edge. With no small amount of cursing, shoelaces, and sharpening later, Tristan manages to construct a five-pronged spear out of fallen branches. He looks at Lance with a triumphant expression, Lance rolls his eyes. Tristan then trounces over to the riverbank, peering into the mud. He raises the spear above his head. Then strikes downwards.

Tristan’s insufferably smug expression is almost forgiven by the smell of cooking meat. Almost. Lance’s mouth waters as large frog legs sizzle and the skin crackles. Even though he needed to be starved for a handful of days to even be willing to try them, Lance finds frog legs to taste somewhat like chicken, even if the texture is unlike any meat he’s ever consumed. The feeling of food in his guts almost brings tears to Lance’s eyes. He’d gotten so used to ignoring how hungry he was. The relief of it abating was almost overwhelming.

Tonight, Lance’s sleep is more comfortable and deeper than the others he’s had in the swamp.

“Someone triggered a drone. I’ll have it on standby in case the antidote needs to be administered.”

“Good, I’ll make sure the good doctors are awake for emergency mobilisation, should anything happen.”

"Also, Sterling found the key."

"Good man."

**Day Five**

Food had taken Lance’s mind off hunger. And right back on to the fact they were running out of time and still sixty miles away from Steel Jaw. He wakes up with a jolt at this realisation, rushing to pack his bag and break camp. In the commotion, Tristan rouses.

“Ugh. Lance, mate, what’re you doing?”

“We have to get going, now.”

“Shit. What’s wrong? Another drone?”

“We’ve been fucking around in the swamp when we should’ve been making progress towards Steel Marsh. We’re almost out of time and _we’re nowhere near it_.” Lance’s voice becomes more frantic as the realisation sets in; he’s going to fail. He’ll fail, and he’ll be dropped from the program. If he’d been alone, without someone like McFord to slow him down, this wouldn’t be happening to him. A cold rage starts to build behind Lance’s sternum.

“What?” Tristan is still bleary eyed from sleep, watching Lance as he moves back and forth around the small camp. “Lance, calm down.” Lance shoots him a furious glare, not halting in his packing. Tristan flinches back, getting up.

Lance finishes packing first, leaving before Tristan is finished getting ready. Tristan shouts at him in protest, shoving the rest of his things into the sack and jogging to Lance’s retreating form.

“What the hell, Lance? What’s gotten into you?” Lance responds by glaring ahead and quickening his pace. Tristan follows, frowning.

Twenty minutes pass in tense silence. Lance’s mind roils in an anger fuelled with fear, because it’s easier being warmed by rage and blaming others than facing the terror behind it.

“This is your fault.” He says, darkly.

“What is?” Tristan sounds incredulous, it only serves to make Lance angrier.

“We’re behind, and you’re slowing us down. Making us stop to rest, not travelling at night. I’ve lost valuable time listening to you.”

“Like hell I am, Sterling.” Tristan responds, “we still have time, why’re you getting so worked up now? You’re not making any sense.”

“Maybe if you weren’t so incompetent, we’d be back at Steel Jaw by now.” Even Lance knows that’s ridiculous, but right now he wants a fight. He’s pissed and needs a good reason to put Cabo’s training to good use.

Tristan scowls, sharp features becoming more severe.

“Fuck off. I’m not some kid who thinks he’s more than he is and only got in because his mum’s dead.”

Lance stops.

“And I’m not a failure who ran away from home when things got a little bit hard. My mom’s dead but at least she fucking loved me.” Lance’s voice raises in harsh fury.

That must have hit a chord with Tristan because he snarls like a wild animal and slugs him in the jaw, _hard_. Lance reels back but doesn’t fall. Recovering quickly and sending two sharp jabs to Tristan’s side, just below his rib-cage. Tristan takes the hits with barely more than a grunt, sending a sharp elbow down between Lance’s shoulder blades before he could dart away. It jars Lance’s neck and the force of it sends him to his knees.

Tristan grabs his jaw with one hand and goes in to punch Lance again. Lance deflects the strike and catches his left forearm. Lance sends a jab into Tristan’s armpit where a cluster of nerves sit. Tristan grits his teeth to stifle a groan, kicking Lance in the hip and backing away. Lance stands and raises his fists beside his head. They circle each other.

Tristan surges forward, going at Lance with a left uppercut. Lance dodges the hit but gets caught by his nasty right hook. His head snaps to the side, face blossoming in pain. He feints falling down, rushing Tristan, grabbing him by the waist and forcing him onto the ground. Tristan rolls them, they tumble down an incline and fall into something wet. In the confusion, Tristan gets Lance in a choke hold, his forearm and bicep like a vice closing around Lance’s neck. Straining, Lance punches at Tristan’s kneecap, until Tristan shouts out in pain and lets him go. They stand, never breaking eye contact.

Panting heavily, humidity and tiredness sapping his strength, Tristan swings a sloppy punch that glances off of Lance’s shoulder. Lance retaliates by going under Tristan’s arm and punching at his throat, but the jabs are slower, Tristan rears back, and they hit his sternum instead. Tristan catches his hands and yanks Lance towards him. He headbutts Lance, forehead colliding with the bridge of his nose. Blood spurts out and Lance yelps.

Lance snatches his hands away from Tristan’s. Then, cupping them, he claps the sides of Tristan’s head, where his ears are, sharply. Tristan yells out in pain and reels back. Lance wipes at the blood gathering at his top lip. They stand, watching each other, panting. 

“Happy yet?” Says Tristan, his voice thick.

“Ecstatic.” Replies Lance between pants.

“Fuck, your dodgy little hits _hurt_.” Tristan rolls his shoulder, wincing.

“You don’t exactly pull your punches either, huh?” Says Lance baring his teeth in a facsimile of a smile, knowing the blood has run between them. Tristan gives a breathy laugh and sags, all tension leaving him.

“Can we finish this some other time? When there isn’t a deadline hanging over our heads?” He says. Lance nods.

“Truce.”

“Yeah, truce.” Tristan rubs the back of his neck. “I’m… I’m sorry. About that, what I said.”

“It was pretty shitty.” Lance replies. “So was I.”

“C’mon then. Let’s get out of here.”

Slowly, tenderly, the two clamber out of the ditch they had rolled into. Gathering their things, Lance looks at the other slope. It’s more a cliff than a slope, formed by a recent mudslide, perhaps. Maybe he could get a good look at the surrounding area from there, where a thick trunked tree grew at the peak, its roots exposed along the slope.

Tristan seems agreeable to the idea. He laces his fingers together and, with a heave, manages to hoist Lance up to the roots. Lance pulls himself up to the top of the slope, map held between his lips. Lance gives Tristan a hand up. Tristan boosts Lance again, this time up the tree, so he could reach the lowest hanging branch. Lance clambers up the boughs to where they can only just support his weight. He pulls the map out of his mouth and looks out to where the tree overlooks a large portion of the basin.

“What do you see up there?” Calls Tristan from below, shielding his eyes from the sun as he looks up at Lance.

“Give me a sec.” Lance responds. Using the rivers as a reference, and the fact the sun was to his left, Lance tries to figure out where the hell they are. He traces his eyes along the curve of a wide river, looking between it and the map to determine its place, scratching at a large spot on the map. As he does this, something by the opposite riverbank catches his eye. “Wait. Holy shit. Tristan!”

“What?”

“I see an airboat!”

Lance rolls the key in his sweaty palm as they hurriedly make their way through the bald cypress forest, to the wide river. Tristan occasionally slows, grunting in pain and rubbing the knee Lance had hit moments ago.

They burst through the foliage, Lance almost falling into the river. To the opposite bank, shining in the glory of an afternoon sun, was an HTUV airboat, innocently tied to a wooden platform.

“Holy shit.” Breathes Tristan. Lance nods in agreement.

They’re getting out of here.

_They’re gonna make it._

The river here was wider than the ones they had crossed three days ago. The current chugs along lazily, airboat bobbing with the waves.

Lance tries to heave himself up onto the platform, but his arms are too weak. Tristan, having swam to the bank beside the platform, made his way to Lance and helps him up. It was with much groaning that they get Lance out of the water, Tristan still sore from Lance’s carefully placed hits.

The airboat lowers with their added weight. Tristan putters around the thing, turning on the boat and revving the engine to check the state of the fan, motor, and wiring. Lance doesn’t hear any muttered curses, so everything seems to be in working order. Tristan reports that the tank is two-thirds full.

Lance looks over the map with fresh eyes, regarding the rivers as a passageway instead of an obstacle. They would have to turn the boat and go against the current, consuming more fuel per hour, but it would cut their travel time to a fraction of a second. A rush of excitement runs up his spine.

“I don’t know about you, Lance, but I’m beat. Literally. My ears’re still ringing.” Remarks Tristan, stretching up from his seat by the fan. Lance’s face and nose throb in solidarity.

“It would be nice to rest for a while…” Lance starts.

“Oho, did I hear that right? You’re actually gonna take a break without a temper tantrum?”

“Yeah, whatever.”

They drape their tarps down from the caged fan, weighing the ends with their sacks, to shield them from the sun. Lance lays down on the floor of the boat, using his jacket as a cushion. He closes his eyes and listens to the sound of water lapping at the hull. On a bench, Tristan looks out at the glimmering river with hooded eyes. They’re hungry, but the discovery of the airboat bolsters their resolve.

When the stars chase the sun from the sky and a new moon rises, Tristan bunks down on the bottom of the boat, bench between him and Lance. Crickets and the rustling of nocturnal creatures sound out in the distance.

“I really am sorry, y’know. I didn’t mean it, about your mum.” Says Tristan, slowly. Lance turns and sees him staring up at the tarp, a strange expression on his face.

“It’s alright man. I get it.” Lance pauses. “I’m… sorry I called you a failure. And that thing about your parents.” He winces, it’s not a very moving apology. Tristan huffs a small laugh.

“Eh, you weren’t totally wrong about some of it.”

A silence blankets the two of them. Both wanting to say something but waiting for the other to start. Eventually, Tristan sighs and turns over, his back facing lance.

They sleep. Lance dreams about chasing a shadow.

“Well I’ll be. It actually worked out.” Beau remarks, watching the screen.

“That was a good, dirty fight. Lance should’ve thrown mud in Tristan’s face, though. Would’ve stunned him and provided an opening.” Says Cabo, arms crossed over his chest. Rashida rolls her eyes as she types Yasmin’s notes into the tablet.

“It’s a good start, they’re not totally chummy but it looks like they’ve reset their relationship dynamic. Both see each other as physically capable equals now. It’ll set a better foundation for partnership.” Yasmin notes, watching the screen. She chuckles, “ _and_ they found the airboat with two days to spare. Didn’t even need the fancy Ursa Major clue you left on Lance’s map.”

“I’m still disappointed he didn’t catch onto the patterning. I thought that boy was actually listening to my speech about Polaris.” Beau groused.

“You make it too difficult for them. Proper problem solving doesn’t even begin until Fourth Phase.” Remarks Cabo. Beau grumbles, still upset no one solved his puzzle. Rashia smiles and continues typing, her eye flaring cyan as it translates the shorthand for her. Yasmin sips at her coffee and watches the tarp flutter in the breeze.

**Day Six**

Lance wakes with a grumbling stomach and watering mouth. The tarp had stayed put during the night, sunlight streaming in the gaps. He clambers out from underneath, looking for the handmade spear Tristan had brought with them. Tristan wakes to the sound and feeling of footsteps on the metal hull. He looks up to see a worriedly determined Lance, pronged spear in hand.

“Uh… what’re you doing with that, Lance?”

“Catching us breakfast.” He says simply.

“Uh-huh. Right. Good luck with that.” Tristan looks at Lance sceptically. He gets up to watch, figuring it could be entertaining to see Sterling flail about for a while.

Lance isn’t too sure what he’s supposed to be looking for, or how he’ll get it with the spear, but he’s willing to give it the old college try. And because he feels Tristan watching him, no doubt judgementally. To get a better look at the river, Lance leans over it, balancing one foot on the rim of the boat. He raises the spear-

“You’re gonna fall doing it like that.”

“No, I’m not.”

He raises the spear again, peering into the murky brownness. He sees a shadow and _strikes_.

And lurches forward too heavily, his foot slips off the side of the boat and Lance falls into the river. Tristan is laughing when he surfaces.

“That was, wow, impressive.” He says between the laughs. Lance rolls his eyes.

“Told you that would happen.” Tristan remarks as he fishes Lance out of the water, helping him back into the boat.

“Yeah, whatever, don’t you have a boat to pilot.” Still laughing, Tristan takes down the tarp and starts the engine. Lance takes off his sopping wet shirt and leaves it on a bench to dry.

The sound of that whirring fan and roaring engine is like a heavenly chorus to Lance. They fly down the river, unafraid lurking drones. Lance keeps them right by way of the map and compass. They follow the branching network of deltas, streams, and rivers, covering more land in thirty minutes by boat than they could have by land in half a day. The air tastes sweet. A lightness settles where dread once rested in Lance’s chest.

They make it to Steel Jaw in six hours, making stops along the way to check the fuel supply and if they were on the right river. Lance leaps onto the dock, securing the boat to a cleat. Tristan powers off the engine. They’re greeted by a welcome committee of their three instructors and the two good doctors, Pascal and Clemons. Beau strides towards them with a big smile.

“Congratulations, you two. You’re the first candidates to make it back to Steel Jaw.” Lance feels pride bloom in him. His shoulders sink in relief and Lance lets out a breath.

Cabo and Rashida give their congratulations. They’re checked over by the doctors; Clemons determines Lance’s nose to just be bruised. No need to set it. Pascal gives Tristan eye drops to prevent the development of any infection or parasite. Then, steaming cups of broth are handed to them. Lance burns his tongue drinking it too fast, the warmth of the drink spreading through his body.

He showers, taking his sweet time. He pulls a dead beetle, dried lichen, and a stick out of his hair. He washes it again just to make sure it’s really clean. They’re given a small meal, nothing too rich or spicy so they don’t vomit it back up afterwards. Just simple mac n cheese, like from the Old Pigeon Diner. When Lance asks her what they should do now, Rashid had shrugged, telling him to rest and wait for time to pass. Lance borrows Moira’s book to keep him occupied. Beau gives him some aloe vera gel for his bug bites.

The other forty-eight trainees begin to filter in at midnight. Dirty, gaunt, and sagging with relief as they reach the camp. Some by water, others by land. Jesse and Rachel reach the camp on a make-shift canoe made from branches, shoelaces, and tarps at about 4am. Moira and David stagger into camp on the morning of the seventh day. She tells Lance they had been walking all night, and she twisted her ankle falling in a hole. Pascal wraps it after she showers.

Lance sees Ramira arrive with three other trainees at noon, one of them had been bitten by a copperhead two days ago and had to be carried the rest of the journey. Pascal and Clemons immediately go to them, treating the area of the bite as well as they could, giving them fluid and moving them to the infirmary in the white and green cabin.

As the sun falls below the horizon, tugging night across the sky, Xiao floats into camp on his tarp, stuffed with forest detritus. When Lance jokingly asks what took him so long, Xiao tells him he’d been found by a drone, and got shot with a sedative that had knocked him out for most of the day. His voice was slurred, and he struggled to keep his head up. Lance helped pull him out of the water, Clemons gives him something to reverse the effects of the drug, and wraps a blanket around his shoulders, she escorts him into the infirmary.

Almost all of the candidates had arrived on time. It was on the eighth day that a group of three limp into camp. Beau tells them that, unfortunately, they did not make it in time. They’re done. They stare at him, almost not hearing his words over their exhaustion. Realisation sinks in. Lance watches one of them cry, wondering if he would’ve been like that had he and Tristan not found the airboat.

They did, though, so Lance tries not to think about it. No use in agonising over the what-ifs; he made it. End of story.

Three days pass, the snakebite victim makes a full recovery, Moira asks Lance about his bruised face, Tristan and Jesse talk quietly amongst each other. They eat, wash, and wait with anticipation to begin the journey to Phase III. 

It’s early morning when the trumpets call for the last time. Lance’s bag fully packed. He gives Xiao Rachel’s fantasy book he’d finished during Phase II. Xiao hands him a historical romance set in British occupied India. The forty-seven remaining candidates are ushered onto the airboats.

Beau treats them to one last meal at Old Pigeon Diner. Lance wonders how tired the staff are, considering the times Beau has them up for. Eggs, fried fish, frogs, crawfish and chicken, and large glasses of orange juice are spread out. Lance eats the fried frog with a newfound appreciation for it. Him and Tristan sit beside each other and chat quietly. Moira looks at them from across the table with a dumbfounded expression.

“Seriously. What happened to you two in the swamp?”

Jesse tells her not to look a gift horse in the mouth and have some breakfast.

* * *

A _Whippet Transportations_ coach carefully makes its way down the road, white coat coated in dust and mud. As the driver packs away their bags, Beau and the other instructors say their goodbyes. Just before Lance can get on the bus, he’s called over to where Beau, Cabo, Rashida, and Tristan are standing. Standing beside Tristan, he looks at the three instructors.

“Neither of you are in trouble, nothing like that.” Starts Beau. “This is more, a, er…”

“Warning.” Says Cabo.

“We’ll call it that, yes. The head instructor for Phase Three, she’s very good at creating insurgence and an… aggressive atmosphere.”

“What Johnson means is she’s a vitriolic ass who likes emotionally prying off your fingernails with a rusted screwdriver.” Interjects Rashida, voice heavy with disdain. “She loves making people lose their tempers and have them pick a fight with her, so she can kick the shit out of them. I don’t know why her contract hasn’t been terminated yet. You two are the most hot-headed pair in the year; do not let her get to you. You don’t want to be medically dropped.” Rashida looks at both of them with an intense gaze. Lance nods, not knowing what else to do. Beau dismisses them with a wave.

In the bus, Moira’s saved Lance a seat. He thanks her and tries to hide is unease with a calm smile. The bus lurches from its stop, making a three-point turn and heading back up the road. As the road evens out and they merge onto a highway, Lance looks back to where Tristan sits. They share a look, Rashida’s warning tumbling in their skulls.

Baton Rouge watches them go. The bald cypress swamp become specks in the distance. Lance takes a deep breath and steels himself for Phase III, and whatever it comes with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Homies Are Fighting In The Swamp!!!!!
> 
> some random candidate, after being bitten by a snake: help  
> the instructors: yoooo those two are fistfighting!
> 
> action scenes are rlly fun to write lmao, hopefully i can go a bit ham with them during the field mission chapters
> 
> and thus concludes Phase II, onto Arizona, where something insidious lies


	9. Phase III - (part i)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arizona  
> May

Lance forgot Louisiana and Texas shared a border until the lush greens were taken over by a dusty brown and yellow landscape. He struggles to focus on his music and book; a nervous energy buzzing in his veins. Lance wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. The summer sun glares down mercilessly on the coach, roasting the interior.

Beside him, Moira fans herself with her book and looks out the window, watching the sparse scrub land fly by. Tristan and Jesse, in the row beside them, are bickering. Both too hot and taking up too much space for the other’s liking. A pop song plays on the radio, set to 823.4 AM.

Lance peers out the window around Moira, and wonders how many miles they’ve covered since they left Washington D.C. He thinks on how different America is from one state to the other; sub-zero temperatures that freeze the tears in your eyes in one, summers so hot you can cook breakfast on the sidewalk in another. Dust bowls, grasslands, forests, prairies, wetlands, deserts, swamps, vast mountain ranges, sprawling cities. Miles upon miles, filled with people who wear their state like an identity. A country filled with countries.

It’s at the ten-hour mark, where the heat is beginning to suffocate Lance, that the coach turns off the I-10 highway. It follows a winding road where the paving suddenly stops. Up ahead is a large motel painted in reds and browns. An iron statue of an eagle, perched on a globe, stands near the front door. Wrapping around the globe, in a cyan that flickers in the dark, is a neon sign: _The Last Watering Hole._

The driver hops out of the coach and goes in, leaving forty-seven sweaty passengers to simmer in the overheating interior. He strides back far too slowly for Lance’s dehydrated liking. He taps the arm rest impatiently. 

“We’ll be staying here for the night, make the final leg to Arizona bright ‘n early tomorrow.” Announces the driver as he opens the main doors and baggage compartment. Lance is one of the first people out. Tristan doesn’t seem fazed by the sun or dry heat, lucky Australian bastard.

A woman with dark, braided hair sits at the reception desk. She asks for Lance’s name and hands him a key to room thirty-four. Lance notices the coincidence ten minutes later, as he showers away the sweat and grime. 

The sheets are starchy and cling to Lance’s feet. He hears a faint buzzing noise in the walls, and the ceiling fan above barely turns. Still, better than being stuck on the bus for twenty hours straight. Lance tries to get some sleep, nerves buzzing behind his eyelids.

In room ninety-eight, Tristan stares at the ceiling. He’s never been one for sleeping. Rashida’s warning flits about in his skull like a mosquito, keeping him from proper rest. He clutches his sheets and tries to calm the mounting dread.

* * *

Morning finds its way to The Last Watering Hole, painting the sky a dusty purple. A coyote’s call rings out in the distance. Lance wakes with a dry, fuzzy mouth - something he’s unfortunately become accustomed to during the last four months. As he washes up in the bathroom, he notices how his face has become slimmer, sharper, more mature. Lance smirks and winks at his reflection, letting it know it’s pretty fine.

In the foyer, there’s a coffee machine and a small basket of plastic wrapped snacks. Lance pockets a breakfast bar and slumps into one of the seats. It itches the exposed backs of his arms. Tristan stumbles out from the hallway, making a beeline to the coffee maker like a ship returning to port after months at sea. He blearily squints at the buttons before jabbing at one of them. Both men watch the coffee be dispensed, white vapour wisps off of it.

Tristan takes a smell of the coffee. Then makes a face like he regrets it. He pours in two packets of white sugar and powdered coffee creamer before he’s satisfied with the results. Then he slumps down onto the seat beside Lance.

“G’mornin.” Grunts Tristan.

“Take it you’re not much of a morning person, huh?” Says Lance with a smile. Tristan makes a disgusted sound and takes a sip of the drink.

“S’not much worth doin’ n’the mornin… best t’sleep it away...” He slurs.

“Are you even conscious right now dude?”

“How would I know?” Tristan’s accent is almost comically thicker in his sleepiness, Lance chokes down a laugh. They return to silence, Lance starting on his bar and Tristan taking sips of his coffee, eyes slowly becoming more alert.

Candidates begin to filter into the foyer. Their friends join them in the corner beside the coffee maker. Moira knocks her head against the machine.

“Jesse if you could push the button to start this thing, I’ll hold my head under the stream.” She says, eyes still closed. Jesse makes a sound in the back of her throat and doesn’t get up from her slouched position in the chair. Lance looks around at them.

“The concept of morning doesn’t seem totally agreeable with all of you.”

“You wouldn’t get it Lance, with all your youth and vigour.”

Lance rolls his eyes.

“Whatever, old lady.”

“Least we can drink, baby face.” Snarks Jesse, Lance scoffs and rolls his eyes. Moira gives Jesse a thumbs up.

The candidates file back into the coach. Lance doesn’t remember it smelling this pungent last night. He takes the window seat, much to Moira’s frustration.

“You always take the window seat, it’s my turn now.”  
  


“Well, with all my youthfulness, I need to sit by the window to keep entertained.” Lance replies, giving Moira a smug look.

Moira grumbles and takes the aisle seat. Lance basks in the victory of his window.

* * *

Lance is done basking in the victory of his window when the sun begins to shoot through, slow cooking him. He sighs and looks up to see if there are any AC nozzles. The ceiling is void of them, just like the other five times he’s looked up.

The radio plays a dreary country song about a guy being hanged. Lance wipes gathering moisture from his eyebrows and wonders if people can sweat themselves to death. Xiao snores behind him. Tristan snoozes in the chair across from Lance, Jesse stares out the window with a tight expression beside him.

Someone manages to pry open one of the windows. Lance is willing to offer money to take their seat when the driver suddenly asks:

“Oh! Are you guys warm?”

And then he turns on the air conditioning, which blasts into the coach from ceiling vents. There’s a chorus of groans, both in relief and frustration. Lance closes his eyes to the flowing, cool air.

“Why hadn’t you done that before, man?” Says one of the other trainees.

“You never asked!”

* * *

They make two stops in the entire state of Texas, and Lance is ready to burst by the first one. He goes to buy a bag of Bugles and a Gatorade afterwards. The cashier scans the items and asks for his ID. Lance hands over his candidate ID, which they scan and tell him it’ll be on his tab. Lance wonders how stingy a secret government organisation has to be to charge their employees for snacks.

The second stop is mid-afternoon, some miles west of Sonora. Lance leans in the shade of the awning. Jesse joins him, a root beer held between her fingers.

“We’re not too far from San Angelo.” She notes, staring at the road signs.

“You from there?”

Jesse gives him a sad smile.

“Born and raised.” 

She doesn’t say any more on it. Lance doesn’t ask. They stand in the shade together, watching cars race by. Lance sees a tumbleweed for the first time in his life.

“So they just… tumble about the place?”

“Yeah. Full of thorns, too, so don’t go trying to catch them.”

“Speaking from prior experiences, trainee Yamamoto?”

Jesse rolls her eyes and elbows Lance.

“Ugh, not you too.”

“Why does it bother you?” Lance asks, suddenly curious.

“My family are very influential in Texas. Growing up, I was always just ‘the Yamamoto Girl’.” Jesse waves her hands for emphasis. “I’m more than that. I know it, and so should everyone else. So it’s just Jesse, for now. Maybe I’ll be able to stomach it when it’s _Agent_ Yamamoto.” Lance nods in understanding.

“That does sound badass.”

“Let’s hope it becomes a reality.”

Lance stares at the grey, cracked pavement by his sneakers. He thinks about how they’re only just halfway through training, yet it feels like a lifetime ago when they left for Pennsylvania.

“…Yeah.” He replies, distracted.

They get back on the bus. The sign for San Angelo passes them as quickly as it came. Jesse watches it, chin perched on her hand, and eyes fixed on the road leading to the city.

* * *

Texas says goodbye to them as the bus leaves El Paso’s city limits. Buildings glitter in the haze of dust and heat. They cross state lines into New Mexico. Lance runs his thumb along the pages of his book but can’t find the want to read. He watches the skeleton of a burnt-out shack pass them by. The radio plays an opera from the thirties, it’s set to that strange frequency that Lance recognises. 823.4 AM. He turns to Moira.

“Hey granny,” he starts, ignoring her objection to the moniker. “What’s with the radio frequency? Last I checked they never went past, like, one-fifty.”

“Oh yeah, it’s a unique HTUV frequency.” She explains, “it helps to track the location of any specialised equipment tuned into it. The frequency picks up nearby radio stations and bounces the signal up to this big HTUV satellite in the atmosphere, which sends the coordinates down to HQ. Director Wallace had proposed and developed it; Director Jenkins’ era saw it in action.

“As long as any one of our vehicles, or a gadget capable of it, stays on 823.4 AM, HTUV’s gonna know where we are, whenever.”

It was a remnant of Reagan's Strategic Defense Initiative, one of the only Star Wars satellites to be built. After SDI lost its appeal, it was quietly handed to HTUV by request of Director Wallace.

* * *

The Grand Canyon State sign greets the travelling coach; an orange star behind a yellow and red background, the dark desert land stretched out beneath it. As they look out the windows at the arid landscape, Tristan hums.

“Not too different from the bush back home.”

“Probably less kangaroos here.” Remarks Jesse. Tristan gives a small laugh.

“No shortage of snakes, scorpions, spiders, and birds of prey though.” He says, in a light tone.

“Eh. Texas’ wildlife is better.”

“Don’t both states have the same animals?”

“Sorta, but a Texan hawk could beat an Arizonan hawk any day.”

The conversation between Jesse and Tristan dissolves into an in-depth discussion on hawk gun fights with their little hawk pistols. How they would work them with their talons in the way, would they even be able to load their guns? What’s the hawk gunsmith economy like these days? Jesse thinks they’re on the edge of a recession. Lance smiles and rolls his eyes at the ridiculousness of their conversation.

* * *

Like most early memories, Lance remembers Arizona mostly in sensations. The smell of warm tarmac, and grey-tinged melancholy as he stared out the window into the Mojave Desert. How the red sands, and orange stone pillars, and swooping ravines, and sparse, brown scrub turned their American road trip into an expedition on the surface of Mars. Him and his dad had stopped at a motel with a large, green dinosaur statue at the front. At night, Lance would try to catch walking cacti in action, but his dad had told them they only move when no one is watching.

When he tired of the strange, shrivelled cacti that hunched over themselves like tired old men, Lance had looked up at the stars and realised the sky was _bigger_ in Arizona. The sheer number of stars there was staggering, brilliant in their luminosity. He would draw his own constellations, admiring the white pricks of light amidst the nothing, and dream of the worlds caught in their orbit. It was in that moment when young Lance had felt wonder again. And, for only an evening, the loneliness had left him be.

Maybe, if Lance’s life had taken a different path, he would have become an astronaut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof, one chapter and however many words in and we Still haven't reached Arizona. i try to have it equivalent to the real world travel time between states by coach but Man, America is a big country ig


	10. Phase III - (part ii)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arizona  
> May

The state isn’t as bright red as Lance remembers. Maybe because many childhood memories are keen to extrapolation. He admires the proud landscape; enormous rock formations carved by the wind’s steady patience, orange and smooth in their foreignness. Tristan and Jesse quietly admire the large motorcycle that roars past the coach. 

They’re twenty miles out from Tucson when the bus suddenly careens off the road, onto the dusty scrubland. Lance’s arm shoots out to hold onto the head rest in front of him as the entire vehicle shakes and jolts with the movement and uneven terrain. Yells of confusion and surprise ring out.

“No worries, folks!” Calls the driver from over the din, his voice vibrating. “All a part of the process, stay in your seats now!” Lance really wishes they’d not have to go to any more strange, hidden bases out in the middle of nowhere. He misses paved roads, privacy, and sleeping in. Beside him, Moira groans and clutches her stomach from the violent motions of the bus. 

The road is soon bisected by a large wire gate, a wire fence stretching out on either side. Clipped to the gate is a white and red sign, warning that trespassers will be shot on sight. Two people, rifles in hand, file out from the small booth beside the gate. The driver winches down his window and talks to the duo. Lance strains to listen over the hushed whispers of his fellow trainees.

“ID.”

The driver hands his card over with a lazy roll of his hand. The man in front grabs it from him.

“Good afternoon to you too.”

There’s quiet as the man looks over the ID.

“State the number of passengers on your bus and,” there’s a sigh, “your favourite radio station.” Lance snorts at how morose the guard managed to make that sound.

“I’ve got about forty head a’ cattle back there, ready for slaughter, and-“

“ _Exact_ number of passengers.”

“I’ll get there. Anyways, I myself always prefer local, small town radio shows. Lots’a heart in ‘em, very organic. Can always tell exactly where you are with them.”

“Driver.”

The guard manages to sound more stern than before.

  
“Yes, fellow employee of a top secret, military associated organisation?”

“Stop yanking my fucking chain and report.”

Lance hears the driver sigh.

“Can’t have no small talk with you people. Blue Marsh’s folks are at least _polite_. Forty-seven passengers, all ready and accounted for. Favourite station’ll always be the eight-twenty-three-point-four, wherever I go.”

“Hmph. You’re free to take the candidates to the compound. Please wait until the gate has opened fully.” With that, the guards turn on their heels and march back to the small booth.

Soon, the gate begins to roll open. The steel whines as it grinds against itself, making chills run up Lance’s spine.

“Am I the only one here getting ominous horror movie vibes?” Says Lance, out the corner of his mouth, as the bus lurches back into motion and crosses the barrier. The gates close behind them with a wailing screech.

“Yeah, no, I’m getting those too.” Replies Moira in an uneasy tone.

“I can and will sacrifice you guys to the monster that hunts us here for sport.” Remarks Jesse, deadpan. “Saw it in a movie.”

“If we have to run from Arizonan Norman Bates, Jesse, I’m tripping you.” Says Tristan. Jesse shrugs, accepting that fate.

“Starting to get the feeling I should’ve taken that office job in Manhattan.” Murmurs Rachel, staring back at the wire gate and fences. They look alien against the desert backdrop, too manmade for a place where man isn’t welcome.

The path they follow is straight as an arrow, the ride less nausea-inducing. The tyres roll over hard-packed dirt worn down with age and use. A cluster of utilitarian buildings grows near, their blocky, precise exteriors a strange anomaly against the sporadic landscape. Lance hears the other passengers whisper amongst themselves, in curiosity and wariness. He shares the sentiment, shoulders tensing in anticipation for _something_ to happen.

The bus slows and comes to a halt in front of one of them. The riveted steel walls bracket a double metal door and two windows. The roof is flat, atop it a mirage ripples in the afternoon sun. To the right is what looks to be a training area and firing range, dummies and obstacles courses already set up.

Across from where the bus had stopped is a large garage with a tall, sloping roof. Inside reveals neat lines of motorcycles, jeeps, and dune buggies. As well as some beat up cars with reinforced fenders and large dents along the sides. The walls of both buildings have the same riveted texture, like that of a storage container, green paint sandblasted off and coated in dusty orange. It reminds Lance of an abandoned military compound.

The driver clears his throat to gather their attention.

“All of you are gonna get out of the bus, grab your bags, and stand on those footprints over there. You will stand at attention as I pull out and leave this… fine establishment. You will continue to stand until the instructor arrives.” He pauses, turning to look back at the candidates. “That clear?”

There’s a hushed round of affirmatives. Lance nods his head, heart pounding. The driver hums and turns back to his dashboard, opening the doors with a hiss of hydraulics. Forty-seven pairs of sneakers step out, the white of them turning orange as desert dust accumulates.

Bag in hand, Lance goes to stand on a white pair of footprints spray painted onto the ground. The sun glares down, wrathful and blazing. Lance squints. He doesn’t recognise the back in front of him, but it’s developed an impressive sweat stain. Moira takes the spot beside him. Then Jesse, Rachel, Tristan. They stand, feet hip width apart and facing the smaller building. The bus pulls away with a squeal and a hiss. Soon the only sound is their breathing, and the rasp of wind scraping sand over metal.

* * *

The heat must make time itself move slower, because to Lance it feels like they’ve been waiting for over half an hour. His shoulders and face are uncomfortably hot under the sun, he shifts from one foot to the next.

Then, two instructors wearing baseball caps and sunglasses push the doors open. They stand to the sides at attention, holding the doors. Ten or so other instructors in the same uniform file out, lining up along the front of the building. A woman remains in the middle of the doorway. She wears an olive coloured jumpsuit, sleeves tied around her waist, exposing the white tank top and scarred arms underneath. Her hawkish gaze fixed on the candidates.

Keeping her hands behind her back, she goes down the stairs, one step at a time. Her heavy boots make a loud tapping sound on the cement. When she reaches the bottom, Lance realises she’s well over six foot. On her head is a pair of aviators, pushed back so her heavy gaze can be felt to full effect. On one shoulder is a black tattoo of the HTUV logo.

“I am Gila. This is Camp Exspes. You’ve made it to Phase Three.” Lance recognises her Australian accent, but it sounds slightly different to Tristan’s.

Her face is set in a flat stare as she stands at the bottom of the stairs.

“Do not assume, just because you survived a handful of bad weeks, that you have earned the respect of anyone here.”

She gestures to the men and women standing at attention in front of them.

“These are your instructors. First name instructor, second name sir. Don’t go asking for their real names; I am the only person here worth knowing.”

Gila begins to walk between the lines of trainees, projecting her voice so that it rings throughout the compound, and in Lance’s ears. As she does, she takes the time to peer at each individual’s face. Like she’s peeling back their skin to uncover the kind of person they are underneath.

“All of you are nothing but children in the eyes of some very bad people. Easily killed, easily hurt children.”

She jabs her index finger into David’s chest for emphasis, before continuing down the line. Lance notices David’s flinch.

“You’re out here in the desert because you’re _soft_. Grown fat on the kindness of Johnson, and the leniency of Wells. I’m here to beat that all out of you.”

She stops at Lance, eyes flicking down to meet his. Lance stares straight ahead, projecting an unbothered air. Gila nods and moves on. He didn’t notice her quick double-take.

“Over the next fourteen weeks I will train you on shooting to kill, on strategic driving skills, and on how to be a tough fucking bastard. HTUV will not accept the mediocre into its ranks.”

Gila glares down as she walks past Rachel and Jesse, who stare ahead with matching, grim expressions.

“If you underperform, you are dropped. If you start snivelling about how difficult this all is, you are dropped. If you’re slow, weak, stupid, _if you speak back to me?_ You. Are. Dropped.”

She looms over Tristan, who meets her gaze unwaveringly. Gila tilts her head, looks over at Lance, then snorts. She continues down the line.

“Morning training is at six am sharp. You get one hour to eat, then it’s back outside. There are no big end-of-phase exams, tests, weeks, whatever. You complete certificates and pass the performance board to continue on to Phase Four. We won’t bother with that bullshit specialty training. There’s jobs here to put what you’ve learned to good use.”

Gila weaves her way back to the front in heavy, measured steps. She hits the ground with the back of her heel, creating a strange percussion for her speech. She stops, standing tall and proud in front of the trainees.

“Today, I want to see what you’re all made of. In fifteen minutes, I want everyone to claim a bunk, get changed into their new uniforms, and get out onto the track. Tardiness is a sign of unprofessionalism, which I will not tolerate. That is all.”

Gila turns on her heel and makes to step up the stairs. Lance’s heart skips a beat when Moira speaks up, disrupting the tense silence.

“Aren’t we going to be given a tour? Of the base?”

Gila’s head snaps to where she stands. She glares at Moira, back straightening. Gila marches over to her with worrying force. Lance sees Moira’s shoulders rise.

“You too fucking stupid to read a sign, trainee? Not gonna be a good agent if you can’t think for yourself.” Gila towers over Moira, snarling down at her with an unexpected ferocity. “Give me your name. Now.”

Moira blinks and shuffles on the spot. Lance can’t rip his eyes away from them, worry building in his chest.

“Moira… Callaghan. Moira Callaghan.” She says, hesitantly.

Gila sneers, eyes raking over Moira’s face like she’s dedicating it to memory. Moira’s ears and face redden from the inspection, she looks down at the ground.

“I’ll repeat myself one more time for the trainees who have difficulty figuring things out.” Gila says this almost exclusively to Moira, drilling a hole into the top of her head with her eyes. “Training in fifteen minutes. Choose a cot. Get changed. Get out to the track.” Gila begins walking back to the front, steps ringing throughout the compound.

“Anyone late will be performance dropped.” She adds with a sharp grin, which sends a jolt of urgency to the trainees’ movements, who don’t want to call Gila’s bluff.

* * *

Lance rushes through the main building, following the white-on-green signs to the barracks. He notes signs for cafeteria, washracks, and classroom, and wonders if the last sign was a typo, or if there really was only one classroom. The ceiling is high, and orange lights bounce off the white walls. The linoleum floor screeches when his shoe scuffs it.

He’s one of the first people to reach the barracks, the room is lined with steel framed cots. On each cot is a neatly folded bundle of clothes. Lance quickly claims one in the middle of the room. In a rush he strips and changes into the Phase III uniform, already used to changing in front of the other candidates from the Steel Jaw’s community living.

Instead of long clothing and waterproofs, the uniform supplied for life at Camp Exspes is a rough, desert-camo jumpsuit, olive green bucket hat, combat boots, white t-shirt, and thin cotton socks that go up to his ankle.

There is no friendly chatter in the barracks as everyone prepares for training. No one wanting to waste any time and have Gila’s wrath pointed at them. Lance ties up his boots and pushes the pantlegs of his jumpsuit down over them. Tristan sees this after pulling on his shirt.

“No, no.” He says, rushing over to Lance. “You gotta tuck them into your boots. Looks smarter and keeps the sand out.” He sees the raised eyebrow Lance gives him. “Listen, it’s what we had to do at bootcamp, and Phase Three is giving me the same feel as back then. I wouldn’t be surprised if we get uniform inspections every now and again.”

Lance shrugs, undoes his laces, and neatly tucks away his pantlegs. Tristan nods, and returns to his cot, pulling up the top half of his jumpsuit and tying his boots.

* * *

The training area has a running track not unlike Steel Jaw’s. Only this one has much more dust, and no adoring crowd to keep Lance going. The only gaze he feels is that of the sun, and Gila’s. Neither are very pleasant. The candidates had neatly lined up at the training area, jumpsuit legs tucked into their boots. Gila nods at them before jerking her head to the track, telling them to _get on it_.

Lance has an awful feeling it’s been longer than four miles. His scalp prickles from the sun and sweat stings his eyes. Lance’s breathing comes out in short, measured pants and he focuses on getting one foot in front of the other. His pace is all over the place and he knows he’s wasting energy. Behind them, in a slowly advancing jeep, Gila taunts them through a speaker system.

_Bet you all feel real tired right now_

_This here thermometer’s telling me it’s well into the triple digits. Phew. Glad I’ve got my air conditioning on._

_You’re lagging behind candidate. Everyone else is miles ahead. May as well give up._

_Go faster. My foot’s cramping up._

Someone collapses and medical staff immediately descend on them. Lance turns back to watch them check over the trainee and talk amongst themselves, then Gila barks at him to keep his eyes forward.

Sometimes Lance finds himself running with Jesse or Tristan. He’d started off alongside Moira, as they often did for the four-mile runs. But Moira had begun to lag behind, more than she usually did. Lance didn’t realise she’d been overtaken by everyone else until she became the new subject of Gila’s ridicule.

“Callaghan… Callaghan… you must be slow in both mind and body. Honestly. Can’t keep up with the rest of the pack? What happens when some Romanian gang sets their hounds on you, and you have to start running for your life in the middle of eastern Europe. By this point you’d already be a stringy pile of flesh. That’s all you’re good for, isn’t it? Being the example of what not to be.”

Lance tries to slow down and run beside Moira in solidarity, and to check that she’s alright. But he’s stopped from decelerating when Tristan catches him by the crook of his arm. Lance tries to rip his arm out of his grasp, but Tristan looks at him and shakes his head, pushing Lance back up front. For five minutes Lance listens to Gila spew awful things to get under Moira’s skin, until she bores of it.

They’re told to stop running, after what has to have been twenty miles. Gila has them line up single file and hold themselves in a plank position until she tells them to stop. If anyone breaks their form, the timer starts back up again. She doesn’t tell them how long they are to hold it for.

The sun beats an angry tattoo onto Lance’s back as he holds his body perfectly straight. He glares at the ground in concentration; Gila’s steel toed boots come into his periphery. Then, Lance feels a pressure between his shoulder blades - Gila’s pushing her foot down on his back.

“Think you can hold out, Sterling? It’s hot out here, and you were just running for forty minutes. Are you as tough as you think you are?”

Lance breathes harshly, his body trembles as Gila puts more pressure on his back, intent on forcing him to the ground. But Lance is stubborn and refuses to fall. Gila makes a noise of approval before lifting her foot off his back. Lance breathes in a deep sigh. Then Gila kicks sand into his face before moving on, leaving him choking on the fine, scratchy particles.

_This is going to be a long fourteen weeks._

* * *

The day passes slowly and painfully, the summer sun refusing to fall under the horizon. Gila tests their stamina and strength by having them hang from burning hot pull-up bars until they’re forced to let go from the pain. They do the maximum number of push ups and crunches their minds and bodies allow them to do. All the while, Gila stalks around them, prodding at each trainee to find any weaknesses, like the warden at a prisoner of war camp, digging their thumb into a bullet wound. Lance’s hands still burn from the bar.

He’s in a daze when the day ends. The cool cafeteria air breathes some life in him, but Lance thinks he might have a minor case of heat exhaustion. The skin of his hands feels too tight, and the back of his neck is hot to touch. Numbly, he eats the reheated, freeze-dried food with a dry mouth. Too tired to talk with his fellow candidates, as are they.

Using water from the washracks, Lance soaks one of his (clean) socks and drapes it on his forehead. Sagging with relief, he settles on top of his sheets and closes his eyes, trying to relax. He holds another wet sock between his sore palms, relishing in the coolness.

“Uh. Mind telling me why you’re wearing soggy socks?” Says Moira, to his left.

“Trying not to succumb to heat stroke.” Lance replies. He raises one half of his sock to peer at Moira, then chokes. 

“Yeah, I know, it’s pretty bad.” Moira’s face and shoulders are bright red. A painful, throbbing kind of red; Lance wonders if she’s going to develop blisters.

“Dude… _Ouch_.”

Moira chuckles. “Ouch doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

“Nice impression of a stop light there, Moira.” Says Tristan, appearing to Lance’s right. Lance raises the other half of the sock with his other hand.

“Not my fault it was too hot to keep the jumpsuit on.” Moira grumbles.

“Have to keep it on, mate, I know it’s hot and sweaty, but you need to have the protection from the sun and some way to retain moisture.” Lectures Tristan. Lance rolls his eyes at the tone and lets the sock flop back over his eyes completely.

“Oh, Look at you Mr. Australian Survivalist.”

“Hey, Jesse’ll say the same thing, y’know…“

Lance laces his fingers on top of his stomach and tuns out their bickering with practiced ease. He focuses on his breathing and lets the cold seep into his skin. Today was difficult, but he made it through, and so did his friends. They got this, just have to ignore Gila and her taunting. He thinks of Blue Marsh and the similar tactics employed by the instructors there.

There were six certificates to complete within the fourteen weeks, as explained to them by a nameless instructor during the break. The first was on combat, then marksmanship, strategic driving skills, HTUV technology proficiency, something called 'Airborne Skills', and _piloting_. All were considered essential tools for a field agent’s arsenal; all were things Lance knows he will excel in.

The first week of Phase III focused on desert survival and physical conditioning. The weak were sniffed out and dropped in that time, then the real training began.

Phase III’s last week was reserved for certificate resits and for the performance board, where an anonymous group of HTUV staff go through a candidate’s development and reasons for them wanting to become an agent. Apparently, the grilling was intense. Lance, the confident man that he is, has yet to feel concern over it. Besides, there was tomorrow to get to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ayyy we've finally started the third phase  
> i enjoyed writing Gila, and by enjoyed i mean i winced during some of her dialogue and actions. she's not very pleasant


	11. Phase III - (part iii)

The morning is no less harsh than the trainees' first day at Camp Exspes. The only upside to being up so early exercising, was the welcome reprieve from the midday sun. Lance sees his breath puff out in front of him during their morning run. Steam lifts off the candidates' bodies as the sun begins to rise along the horizon.  
  
During breakfast, in the industrial looking cafeteria, staff weave through the tables and hand out large textbooks with a small notepad and pen. Lance's textbook shines in the fluorescent strips overhead.  
  
HTUV Italian Course C1 - Effective Operational Proficiency  
  
A CD is taped to the inside of the cover. The textbook must be brand new because the spine crackles and resists as he opens it. Lance flips through the glossy pages, it’s in better condition than the second-hand intermediate Italian book he was supplied at Steel Jaw.  
  
There’s a thirty-page section of vocabulary by the end and each page has little watercolour drawings of places like the Leaning Tower of Piza and Roman Coliseum. Lance leans over to sneak a peek at Moira’s Turkish book, which has similar drawings depicting the Galata Tower and Basilica Cistern.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
The rest of the day is spent under the harsh midday sun; Gila and another instructor goes through building different forms of desert shelter. Ironically, you’re not supposed to do any form of physical work during daytime in the desert because there’s too high a risk of heat stroke. The candidates are paired up to mirror field agent partners. Lance wonders how much of a coincidence it is that him and Tristan were put together.  
  
They dig half a metre into the sand to construct a below ground shelter, working in a silence only disrupted by the sound of grunting and sand being shifted. From time to time Gila would swagger her way over to where Lance and Tristan were working. They mustn’t be on her hit list for today because she only kicks in a handful of sand before moving on.  
  
The shelter is finished when Lance piles the mounds of sand around the freshly dug trench and Tristan drapes a tarp over the opening, weighing it down with more sand and rocks. It looks… homely? Maybe for a tarantula. A break is called and the trainees shimmy down into their shelters while the instructors and Gila inspect their constructions.  
  
Unfortunately, Lance and Tristan had only eyeballed the width of the shelter. Now, they were crammed together in the stifling heat. Gila comes over and squats down, peering into their shelter. She cackles.  
  
“Always good to see agents getting closer to each other, but I have a feeling it wasn’t meant literally.” She quickly looks over their work, nodding in approval. She motions to someone outside the shelter, who rolls two water bottles down the hole. The bottles were coated with sand by the time they reached Lance and Tristan, perspiration acting as an effective adhesive.   
  
What they weren’t aware of, is if the shelters were below Gila’s standards, she’d kick in half the wall and tell them to make it right before they could have water.  
  
As Tristan sips from his bottle, he hums. Lance turns to him inquisitively.  
  
“This reminds me of when I was a kid,” Tristan starts, “I’d sneak out from home when my parents weren’t looking to go downtown and play with the kids there.” Tristan smiles, almost nostalgic.  
  
“We’d go out into the boonies and play desert survivor. Dig these holes in the ground with bent up soda cans and pile our shirts over the top. It was always boring when we finished digging, because all you could really do was sit in the cramped space with six other kids. Still fun, though.” Tristan stares at his bottle, smile falling away. He traces patterns into the sand stuck to the moist plastic.  
  
“I wonder where they are now.”  
  
Lance isn’t too sure what to say, if he should offer words of comfort. Instead he elbows Tristan and holds up a handful of sand, letting it fall between his fingers.  
  
“Guess things haven’t changed, huh?”  
  
Tristan snorts, and it turns into a laugh.  
  
“No, no” He says, between chuckles, “I guess not.”  
  
They rest in the cool shade, sipping water and enjoying the comfortable silence.  
  
They’re made to demolish their old shelters, hiding any trace they were ever there. In Lance’s head he plays a funeral march as he smooths sand over the remains of the hole. To the side, Tristan neatly wraps up the tarp.  
  
The second shelter was open on all sides for circulation. No trenching required. It was more tricky trying to get the stone and sand pillars even, as well as folding the tarp so it acted as two separate layers. As him and Tristan were assembling the second layer, shouting rings out to the right of them.  
  
“Do you think this is an acceptable standard for a survival shelter? These aren’t for show, you have to sleep in these things without fear of them collapsing on you!” It’s Gila, and when Lance turns to where the sound is coming from, he sucks in a breath. Moira is sitting on her knees beside a ruined shelter. Gila must have destroyed it during her rant. Across from her, David stands, shoulders hunched up to his ears. Moira stares at the ground, face frozen in a scowl as Gila looms over her, telling her she’s managed to be the biggest fuck up in the year group after only two days.  
  
Lance’s fists clench around the tarp, his eyes glued to the scene. A tugging sensation jolts him out of it, he turns to face Tristan, who holds the other end of the tarp. Tristan shakes his head slowly, and quietly continues assembling the shelter. Lance watches flabbergasted as Tristan, face carefully neutral, works to the sound of their friend being verbally abused and humiliated in front of them.  
  
Lance isn’t much help in building this shelter. His hand tremble with seething anger. He doesn’t want to talk to Tristan either, the coward that Lance now sees him as.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
Gila walks around the trainees as they do their morning exercises and complete survival tasks, like building fires and finding water, reading their interviews and candidate reports out loud for all to hear. Lance hopes they aren’t the actual reports, they’re too personal to just list out in front of their colleagues. Judging by poorly hidden scowls and bright red faces, Lance fears Gila’s not lying.  
  
“One-Oh-Three, says here you have traditional training in the operatic arts. C’mon then. Give us a song and I might let you sit out this mile. No? Need time to warm up? Guess you don’t really want American citizenship for your family, then.”  
  
“Candidate number Zero-Six-Two, if you want any chance at paying off your mother’s medical debt with HTUV’s salary, I suggest you put in some more effort. You really must not care that much about her leukaemia if you’re gonna lag behind so much.”  
  
“Oho, number Seven! You’ve been given more than a few recommendations from senior agents. Judging by your track record, though, I have a feeling you got those by spending a lot of time on your back.”  
  
The first week of Phase III passes and Lance wishes he was going through a second Limbo instead. The faceless instructors don’t seem to care as Gila picks on them. Every couple of days she finds a new trainee to prod at. Her favourite victim seems to be Moira, whether it was because she spoke out on the first day, or if she finds it easy to get at her.  
  
During off time, when the barracks fill with subdued, nervous candidates, Lance keeps his mind off of Gila by practicing his Italian. Ramira was one of two others, that remained, who also chose the language. They’d work on their pronunciation together, in hushed voices.  
  
Lance wonders when they can phone home. Someone had asked one of the nameless instructors when the slots would be announced. The instructor told them they’ll phone home when Gila tells them they can. Lance misses his dad and knows he needs to talk to him. His dad’s prone to worrying  
  
Out of misplaced anger, Lance ignores Tristan. Frustrated at the situation and on how unaffected Tristan seems by all of it. When Gila starts her taunting, Tristan’s face falls into a carefully blank expression, and stays like that until she stops. Lance doesn’t know what it means.  
  
He just wants to give Gila what she deserves. They’re promising field agents for heaven’s sake. Give them some respect for getting this far at least. Then Rashida’s warning rings in his head, and Lance forces himself to keep still.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
**Certificate I – Combat Proficiency**  
  
It’s the first morning of week two when the trainees are handed out small document books. Lance’s has his name and candidate ID number neatly typed along the top. The HTUV logo spans most of the cover. Honor, Trust, Unity, Valor wrapping around it. Along the bottom, the text reads Field Agent Selection Course Certificate Book. Lance flips through it idly while trying to chew his way through the rubbery scrambled eggs.  
  
There are lines for the head instructor’s signature, beside two tic-boxes. One says pass, the other fail. Six sections overall. Twelve weeks of hardship condensed into an eighteen-page notebook. Lance doesn’t know if he should feel resigned or excited. He swallows the eggs with some effort and closes the book.  
  
Gila, while coarse and unpleasant, obviously has extensive training in combat. Before the candidates are allowed to begin any kind of practice, she goes over the ranges of combat with another instructor as her assistant. There are several more than Lance was aware of:  
  
Projectile range, far enough away that a pistol or rifle is the only effective option. They’ll go over most of that during the second certificate.  
  
Kicking range, further than arm’s reach but within range of one’s feet. The kicking range is, more often than not, used to get someone out of the way, or to break their knees. Can help in pushing them into projectile range.  
  
Punching range, close to the point where kicking is awkward and a punch can be thrown. Gila shows them the hammer fist used by Green Berets, as hands are easily damaged when launched as normal punches. Efforts should be focused on hitting the brachial nerves, solar plexus, and other soft tissues of the body. She mentions that weapons combat that can be utilised in this range.  
  
Clinch range, too close to throw a punch but allows for effect use of headbutts and knees.  
  
“If you’re in a situation where you need to headbutt someone, don’t be an idiot and go straight for their forehead. It’ll stun them as much as it will you, and you just might give yourself a concussion. Always target parts of the body that are weaker than what you’re using to strike.” She points her index and middle finger to the instructor’s nose as an example, miming the strike.  
  
Grappling range, on the ground and focused on finding the best position to strike an opponent using joint manipulation, pressure points and choke holds.  
  
“The only reason you should fight someone in the first place is to stop the fight. If you have to kill them, kill them.” Gila’s tone turns suddenly serious at that. Lance straightens at her tone.  
  
The candidates line up beside full-bodied dummies. The one she uses as an example is well battered.  
  
“These are special HTUV training dummies.” She starts. “Programmed with sensors to detect the force and effectiveness of your strikes. If you hit hard enough to reach the psi threshold, good ol’ Punchin’ Paul’s eyes go red. If you don’t, that’s a strike against your name, and you’re one step closer to being performance dropped.”  
  
She turns to the dummy, squares up, and sends a powerful right punch into the dummy’s solar plexus. The eyes flare red before returning to a hollow black. The force of the hit almost topples Paul, Lance winces in sympathy.  
  
“For now, I want you all to know how hard you need to hit the bad guys in order to win.” She grabs the dummy by the shoulders and knees it in the groin. The eyes flare red again.  
  
“No yakuza, mafia, bratva, general thug is gonna take some limp wristed fighter seriously. You have to hit them hard, so they don’t. Get. Back. Up.” Gila punctuates each word with a punch to the dummy’s head. She ends the sentence by kicking the dummy in the middle of its chest in a harsh pushing motion. The dummy goes toppling to the ground, its red eyes stare up soullessly at the dusty blue sky.  
  
The training area is soon filled with the sound of fleshy impact. Lance make a few experimental jabs to find out the sweet spot between force and effort. He doesn’t have to punch with all his might, but it’ll still be difficult to maintain the force needed for the rest of the training session. He goes through the sequences of strikes he was taught all the way back at Blue Marsh, keeping light on his feet and moving around the dummy for better access to certain body parts.  
  
Temple. Mandible. Neck. Collarbone. Sternum. Solar plexus. Guts. Kidneys. Groin. Knees.   
  
He runs over the sequence several times more. At some point, Gila cackles when Tristan hits the dummy hard enough to topple it.  
  
Lance must be getting tired because he makes a sloppy punch to the solar plexus that jars his wrist and doesn’t trigger the sensors. Lance curses, shakes out his wrist, and continues the sequence with renewed vigour. This time, using the hammer fist Gila had shown them. He doesn’t notice Gila behind him, watching on with approval. He does notice, some minutes later, Gila finding a trainee to pick on.  
  
“Callaghan, you know you have to hit the dummy so the lights turn on. Right? I guess I shouldn’t expect that of you, you struggle to read signs, after all.”  
  
Moira is scowling at Punchin’ Paul, her hits become sharper and her exhales sound like poorly hidden curses. Gila leans in close to Moira’s side.  
  
“Do you really think you’re going to make field agent? You’ve been consistently low throughout the whole year. You have no chance of making it through Third Phase, I’ll make sure of it.”  
  
Moira growls and hits the dummy, its eyes flash red for the first time since she started. Gila watches her. The eyes flash red with each subsequent hit.  
  
The candidates are moved onto a round of knee and elbow strikes. Lance finds he needs more space to build up enough force, but he takes to the new movements well. The more dynamic strikes lending well to his fighting style. He keeps light on his toes like he’s using a jump rope. Lance doesn’t notice how many other candidates are struggling to get the same results as him. He doesn’t feel a jealous glare from a man he’s yet to encounter.  
  
The next five minutes are spent perfecting chin jabs; fingers splayed and wrist cocked. Hit hard enough to break the bad guy’s neck but never use it in friendly sparring. The resistance of the dummies is turned up subtly, so the candidates have to hit harder than needed for the eyes to flash.  
  
Lance finds a good rhythm of moving from a fighting stance, to rushing the dummy and slamming the head back in a quick, violent movement. His breaths move in time with his strikes and he imagines himself as a field agent during a climactic battle. Maybe in Venice. Or Berlin. And there’s a bomb he has to get out of the city. And damn Punchin’ Paul’s in the way. Special Agent Sterling has no time for this. Bam! Chin jab! Down goes Punchin’ Paul.  
  
When the training ends, instead of dismissing the candidates, Gila has them line back up beside the dummies they were using. She walks along the lines with a tablet in hand. All their hits had been recorded. An average psi per strike was calculated, as well as the strongest and weakest hits.  
  
She stops at each candidate, taking her sweet time to look between them and the tablet. Lance just thinks it’s a scare tactic until she snarls at one of them:  
  
“Get the fuck out of here.”  
  
The candidate straightens and Lance can see the whites of their eyes. He hears them, almost instinctually, hiss out a what?   
  
“You talking back to me, shitstain? You went below the standards. You’re not good enough to be a special agent. You’re dropped. Get out of my sight.” The candidate blinks and looks around them, trying to find support in a sea of blank faces. Hesitantly, they make their way back to the main building.  
  
Gila continues down the line, the trainees now chokingly silent as they await their verdicts. Lance’s heart jumps into his throat when she stops at him. Gila looks down at the tablet, then up at Lance. She nods and tells him good work under her breath, so only Lance could hear it. He lets his shoulders sag down in relief.  
  
Five candidates in total are dropped that day, after months of rigorous training, just. Just because they couldn’t throw a hard enough punch. Gila’s quiet praise is ringing too loud in Lance’s ears for him to realise how unfair that is.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
Dinner is a quiet affair. Lance sits with his friends and pokes at the food with a plastic fork. Moira grumbles up a storm, pride bruised and nerves worn down from Gila’s bullying.  
  
“Who does she think she is? She’s just some instructor, we’ve gone through so much, the least she could do is not fucking hound me for my mistakes.” No one points out her slip. Tristan’s lips thin and he stabs a forkful of grisly burger patty.  
  
“Every fucking day I’m out there doing my hardest, like I have since day fucking one. Give me some goddamn space and I’ll do fine.” She’s being louder than Lance is comfortable with, considering the subject matter. Moira’s got a nasty scowl on her face that Rachel looks at with a wince. Jesse stares at her plate, mouth twisting. None of the four have received the same treatment from Gila. They have a feeling they know why.  
  
“She’s all this talk about us preparing for ‘external stressors’ but I fucking doubt the goons we’ll be put up against are going to be shouting all our failures right in our ears.”  
  
“You don’t know that, Moira.” Tristan says, quietly. It stops her tirade in its tracks. Lance and Moira give him matching glares that Tristan doesn’t seem to register. He just stares at the stainless-steel table, face fixed in a well-practiced, neutral expression.  
  
The days of combat training toughen Lance’s hands. After morning training and breakfast, half an hour is spent with the Punchin’ Pauls. The candidates run over sequences of punches, knees, kicks, elbows, tiger claws, hand blows, and chin jabs. Lance notices how shaped his forearms are becoming and can’t help but admire them in the midday sun.  
  
The day ends with one-on-one sparring. The candidates find a partner and pull on protective gear that Lance doubts has been cleaned this decade, then judging by the smell. Then they proceed to try and beat the shit out of each other. It helps to take the edge off of Gila’s words, an outlet for smothered frustrations. Moira seems to need it, with Gila refusing to let up on the prodding.  
  
It seems almost every day is spent watching his friend be worn down by their head instructor, unable to stop it. Dinner is often accompanied by Moira’s increasingly frustrated commentary on Gila and her teaching habits.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
It all comes to a head during their third week.  
  
Training had seemed to ramp up, with Gila showing them more brutal techniques in close-quarters combat. Alongside using melee and ballistic weapons in a fight, she also showed the candidates how to effectively overextend, to the point of breaking, knee and elbow joints in one vicious strike. She pulls out a ballistic-gel dummy filled with fake human bones – but with the same density as real ones. It’s attached to a frame that holds it in a standing position.  
  
“It’s all in the angle.” Gila wrangles the dummy so its side was to her front. “You can’t do much damage hitting in the direction the joint is supposed to go.” She gives a kick to the back of its knee, which bends with the hit.  
  
“You’ll get better results hitting outside its natural range of motion, especially where the joint is less reinforced.” Without warning, Gila lifts her leg and sends a sharp, practiced stomp down onto the side of the dummy’s knee. Lance winces as the joint cracks loudly. If it were alive, the dummy would be screaming.  
  
“Breaking an opponent’s elbows and knees isn’t considered very honourable. But it gets the job done, and that’s what we’re here to do.” Gila goes on to show how to break an attacker’s elbow, the position and angle of the strike needed. When she’s done the dummy’s limbs stick out at unnatural angles, fake bones glisten in the sunlight.   
  
They first practice their stomps on wooden planks, with the intention of breaking the plank in the first hit. Moira, exhausted from the weeks’ intense training, struggles to break the board. Her breaths come in shrill pants and Lance sees that her uniform is rubbing painfully at her sunburn. Gila stalks over to her, as if sensing the struggle.  
  
At first Gila just lets her presence distress Moira. Who, who sees her in her periphery and knows what’s coming. The sharp snap of plywood cracks through the air. Moira sets up another plank.  
  
“Look like you’re struggling there. Callaghan.”  
  
The sound of a boot connecting with wood, but not breaking it.  
  
“Can’t even break a plank, and yet you think you can break a joint mid-fight?”  
  
It hits again. The plank stands strong.  
  
“The bad guys aren’t gonna stand still and let you stomp in their fucking knees. You have to be faster than this. You have to be better than what you are. And I don’t see that happening.”  
  
Snap.  
  
“You just have a fucking problem with me. Let off.” Moira’s voice rings out sharply through the air. All candidates stop in shocked silence. It’s deathly quiet at Gila looks at Moira. Her face is blank, but something in the way she holds herself makes Lance’s hackles rise.  
  
“What did you just say to me, recruit?” Gila says softly. Her voice sounds like the unsheathing of a knife. Moira, realising what she just did, doesn’t back down, instead bolstering herself with a frown.  
  
“You’ve been nothing but a bully to me. Fuck. Off.” Moira’s fists clench. Gila’s eyes flick down, then back up.  
  
“And you must feel real hard done by, now, don’t you?” She starts, taking a step towards Moira. “Poor Callaghan, always behind her peers but trying so hard. You should’ve given up a long time ago. Pure effort isn’t going to cut it. Special agents need inane talent. Something you don’t have.”  
  
Moira throws a punch and it connects with Gila’s jaw.  
  
A collective gasp is drawn, even by Moira. Gila slowly turns her head back to Moira. Her hand darts out and snatches Moira’s collar. before Moira can react. Gila drags her to a sparring circle and yanks her into the boundary.  
  
“All of you! Stop what you’re doing and watch.” She hollers, shoulders rounded and ready for a fight. Lance meets wide eyes with Tristan. They rush to the front of the group with Jesse and Rachel.  
  
Gila stands in front of Moira, arms outstretched.  
  
“You got in one hit. See if you’re lucky twice.” Her voice is dangerous, a knife’s edge flashing in the darkness. Lance knows he has to do something. Has to get between his friend and danger. But he’s rooted to the spot, an unwilling spectator.  
  
Moira hesitates before steeling herself. She sends a jab to Gila’s face. In a blur of violent motion, Gila rushes Moira, batting her arm out of the way, grabbing her shoulders, and bringing them down to send a vicious knee into her abdomen. Then another one. Lance hears Moira’s choked shout from where he’s standing. Gila shoves Moira away. Moira stumbles, clutching her stomach with a wince.   
  
“Again.”  
  
Moira goes in for an elbow instead. Gila catches the elbow and forces it up, exposing Moira’s side. She sends three hard punches in Moira’s side that makes Lance grimace. He sees Moira struggle in Gila’s grip, twisting as she hits her. Gila shoves Moira away again. Moira leans to one side, in obvious pain.  
  
Lance steps forward. Once again, Tristan grabs him by the crook of the elbow. Only this time, he doesn’t let go, grimly watching the scene unfolding before him.  
  
“Again, Callaghan. This is nothing compared to a real fight.”  
  
Moira makes a choked snarl before rushing Gila, trying to… to do something. A punch? A chin jab? Lance isn’t sure, and he has a feeling Moira doesn’t know either. Gila catches her arm and twists her wrist so her palm faces skyward. Moira bends over to compensate for the strain.  
  
Then Gila starts hitting her. Heavy punches to the side of her head. and body. Lance sees Moira’s free arm go up, in an attempt to defend herself or to surrender, he wouldn’t know. Moira’s in surrender. Her nose is bleeding. It’s, trickling down her top lip. Her legs wobble.  
  
“Please.” Another hit. “Stop.” The next one gets Moira in the mouth. She makes an awful gagging sound that rips a pained noise from Lance’s throat. Tristan’s grip tightens.  
  
Moira falls to the ground and Gila keeps hitting her. Stop hitting her, she’s done, she’s had enough. Gila’s lips are pulled back in an ugly snarl. Blood spatters her face and the sand where Moira’s teeth had split her knuckles.  
  
Gila drags Moira’s half limp form up by her upper arm.  
  
“You fucking happy now?” She yells into Moira’s ear. Moira flinches away, Gila grabs her by the jaw and forces her to stay put. “This is a real fucking fight. No one will pull punches with you.”  
  
She grabs Moira’s head and slams it into the sand.  
  
“You instigated this. You started a fight you didn’t know you could win and look where you are now.” Moira whimpers and Gila slaps her sharply.  
  
“If you can’t handle me, what’s gonna happen when keeping a cool head is the only fucking thing stopping you from being captured, tortured, and raped.” She straightens up before kicking Moira in the guts with her steel-toed boots. Moira tries to curl in on herself, but Gila grabs her by the wrist and jaw, yanking her closer.  
  
“The bad guys aren’t going to be quick about it. They’ll make sure you suffer. They want you to know they have complete power over you and your life until they finally let you die.” Gila shakes Moira. Blood dribbles out of Moira’s mouth and from cuts along her eyebrow and orbital socket. Lance’s pulse roars in his ears. Do something. Help her.  
  
Gila stands, looking taller with Moira’s curled up form at her feet. Gila stares down at her.  
  
“Moira Callaghan you have failed to maintain a level head under pressure and attacked a superior officer.” Two medics make their way to the circle with a stretcher. “Due to this poor performance, you are dropped, by my order.” Glia leaves her, facing the candidates. Blood drips from her fists, and Lance sees just how many angry, white scars crisscross up her hands and arms.  
  
“Remember this moment.” She says. “Dismissed.”  
  
Tristan drags Lance away from the circle, and out of his red tinged reverie. He doesn’t let go until they reach the main building. Dinner is served and it tastes like ash in Lance’s mouth.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
It’s midnight and Lance is wide awake. He feels... He feels a lot of things, anger at Gila, worry for Moira, fear for himself. The emotions tumble in his chest and guts, fighting for dominance. None seem to be winning and Lance is left numbly staring at the ceiling, replaying that moment in his head, over and over.  
  
The crunch of Moira’s nose under Gila’s fists. Her blubbering breaths as blood trickled into her mouth. Gila screaming at her, spittle flying from her mouth.  
  
If you can’t handle me, what’s gonna happen when keeping a cool head is the only fucking thing stopping you from being captured, tortured, and raped. The bad guys aren’t going to be quick about it. They’ll make sure you suffer. They want you to know they have complete power over you and your life until they finally let you die.  
  
Lance winces at her words. He always knew there were dire consequences if he was ever caught. But to have someone bluntly describe what the bad guys want to do to them? He shivers, rolls onto his side, and tries to banish those thoughts. Lance closes his eyes to the image of blood on the sand and a broken friend.  
  
He remembers when they had arrived at Camp Exspes, joking about horror movie monsters. The jokes leave a bitter taste in Lance’s mouth when he realises, they were right.  
  
There is a monster here, a gila monster.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> F in chat for moira  
> Gila was also going to break moira's arm, but it felt too excessive so i decided against it
> 
> Gila: * verbally berates the candidates and is in general, extremely unpleasant *  
> Tristan: wow, just like home * starts dissociating *


	12. Phase III - (part iv)

Forty-one candidates file into the cafeteria. Moira is not with them, and Lance feels her absence. Many people do. He stares at the bland, poorly cooked food in front of him and feels a wave of nausea roil through him. Tristan watches, concerned.  
  
As they make their way back to the barracks, Tristan calls out to him.  
  
“Lance, we need to talk.” His voice is cautiously soft.  
  
Lance ignores him and keeps walking. Tristan grabs him by the crook of his arm. A feeling of déjà vu blooms in the back of his mind.  
  
“Lance.”  
  
“What.” Lance hisses.  
  
“Look,” Tristan starts. “It sucked, what happened to Moira. It wasn’t fair and it was cruel.”  
  
“Thanks for pointing out the obvious – “  
  
“And I know you really want to give Gila what she deserves. Don’t you?”  
  
Lance stops and stares at the wall, a quiet anger clawing at his chest. Tristan continues.  
  
“You’ve gone through too much shit just to get performance dropped for misconduct and assault.” Tristan moves so him and Lance are facing each other.  
  
“Look, we haven’t had the best of relationships, not by a long shot. Hell, we had a fist fight in a swamp a couple weeks back.” Lance’s nose still smarts from the memory.  
  
“But that bitch Gila? It’s a waste of time trying to fight back or defend yourself. I know how to deal with these kinds of people. It’s… it’s best to just grin and bear it for now. We have to keep a level head and try not to let her get under our skin. It’s best if we work together, try and find some way to deal with Gila without actually confronting her.”  
  
Lance looks at the linoleum floor and stares at the grey scuff marks. He remembers Moira, he remembers how much he needs to get through this phase. He takes a deep, calming breath.  
  
This is a mission. One that Trainee Agent Lance Sterling must complete, but not alone. Lance looks up at Tristan, at his dark eyes and the bags underneath; he didn’t get much sleep last night, either. Lance holds out his hand decisively.  
  
“Partners?”  
  
Tristan stares at the hand, shocked expression cracking into a laugh. He shakes Lance’s hand.  
  
“Yeah, sure. Partners.”  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Without Gila’s favourite scapegoat to divert her attentions, she broadens her prodding and taunting to the entire year group. In response, Lance and Tristan resolve to look out for each other and to not let Gila worm her way under their skin. They’d made it too far to lose their heads and their candidacy.  
  
The lessons began to focus more heavily on sparring and application of knowledge and skills. Lance and Tristan would partner up and take out their pent-up aggression and stress on each other. Their fights were worryingly vicious to onlookers; Jesse and Rachel had feared that whatever tenuous friendship they’d achieved was broken after Moira dropped, until Lance and Tristan explained their strategy for dealing with Gila. This was met with relieved sighs and Jesse muttering about men and their issues.  
  
The days blend together, punctuated by new skills, counters, chokeholds. New ways to incapacitate a combatant quickly and efficiently. Or, if the situation called for it, in the most psychologically traumatising ways possible. Lance didn’t see much valour in curb stomping. Or eye gouging.  
  
Lance grunts and ducks so Tristan’s left hook sails over his head. He sends a right jab to Tristan’s chest, which Tristan catches and tries to hold Lance in place for another heavy hit. Lance rears back then jolts forward with a sharp right elbow to the temple. As Tristan moves with the hit, Lance sweeps his legs out from under him, and Tristan falls to the ground. He keeps a strong grip on Lance’s arm guard, dragging him down with his heavier body weight. Tristan heaves his legs up, catching Lance in an arm lock using his entire body. Tristan tenses and bucks his hips up, forcing Lance’s torso to twist away from his arm, increasing the strain. Lance grits through the pain for a handful of seconds before tapping out. Tristan releases quickly. He stands, brushing the dust off his back before they resume sparring. All that happens within the span of ten seconds; a sudden and violent volley of hits that, to onlookers, doesn’t look too friendly.  
  
“Look at that! That’s how you fucking spar!” Gila crows. Sometimes she stays to watch large portions of their spars with rapt attention, eyes wild and lips pulled back in glee.  
  
Training with the dummies meant they hit harder than before, both men feeling the other’s blows through their sparring gear. Once Lance pulled up his shirt to reveal a fist-shaped bruise beginning to form along his ribs. Upon showing Tristan, the Australian had chuckled and showed Lance a boot-shaped bruise in the centre of his chest, where Lance had landed a solid kick.  
  
“You should see how you guys move.” Remarks Jesse, during one night in the cafeteria. “I’m half convinced you’re trying to kill each other. I can hear the hits halfway across the training field.”  
  
“It’s kind of terrifying.” Adds Rachel, looking up from her French book. “Once, I looked up and saw you send a roundhouse kick at Tristan’s head.” She points at Lance with her fork, bits of food falling off of it with the movement.  
  
“We do like to put on a good show.” Lace says with a smarmy look. Jesse rolls her eyes.  
  
“Gila seems to love it well enough.” Tristan grumbles, prodding at his dinner.  
  
“Maybe that kind of attention is good, though.” Says Rachel, the three turn to look at her. “Gila’s an absolute bastard, don’t get me wrong, but she knows her shit. And she has final say on our reports. If you’re making such a strong, positive impression, I doubt she’ll get at you two as much as the other trainees, by virtue of her confidence in your abilities.” There’s a pause as they stare at Rachel with bewildered expressions.  
  
Rachel huffs. “I minored in psychology at college, guys, c’mon.”  
  
The sparring took the sting out of Gila’s words. But her approval still made him feel sick, regardless of Rachel’s predictions. The blood where Moira and Gila fought was raked away, but it’s still fresh in his mind’s eye.  


  


* * *

  
  
  
They move on to melee weapons, Gila handing out batons similar to what field agents utilise in close quarters combat. The aim wasn’t to hit the assaulter over the head until they gave up, but to disarm, disable, or create distance so one’s firearm can be brought back into the fight.  
  
“Don’t waste energy whacking the enemy about. Be efficient, it might not seem like much, but these batons can be very unforgiving with just a flick of the wrist. Use this to get the space between you and them so you can draw your pistol and put them out of their misery.”  
  
The candidates are paired up; one wearing heavy arm and wrist guards throws punches at the candidate holding the baton. The focus was on effective limb destruction without wasting energy. As Tristan makes his fake punches, Lance flicks his wrist and the baton makes a solid whacking sound when it connects with the guard. He frowns in concentration, remembering to keep moving like how a boxer would, so as to not become an easy target.  
  
When they swap, Lance throws a quick jab that gets too close to Tristan. Tristan doesn’t jerk back and instead whacks Lance on the outside of his elbow, where the guard doesn’t reach. The noise Lance makes is reminiscent of a rabbit caught in a snare. He curls over the aching limb, funny bone sending sharp shocks of pain up the arm. Tristan hovers over him, apologising profusely. Jesse sees this, sighs, and shakes her head.  
  
At least they know it works.  


  


* * *

  
  
  
Gila stresses how important angles of attack are, especially when using bladed weapons. Training knives, roughly four inches long, are distributed. Lance flicks his open, there’s nothing special or ‘HTUV’ about the blade, no neurotoxin or electrification. Just a simple knife, which, according to Gila, will do more than enough damage.  
  
They’re taught how to slash across the body, with the intent of nicking an artery, severing tendons, or slashing through muscle. Before the candidates begin on the dummies, Gila drills them on changing grips on the knives from a slashing grip to a stabbing grip. Lance’s wrist and fingers ache from the movement, but he feels more confident now that he knows such things.  
  
In pairs, the candidates once again throw mock punches while their partner deflects the strike and rushes them to slash at the crook of the elbow, into the bicep, or stab at the ribcage and armpit. It ends with Gila showing them the C-cut, intended to disembowel a bad guy. Lance’s grip on the knife tightens in anticipation, wondering what his first real fight will be like.  


* * *

  
  
  
It’s a Saturday when, instead of heading to the training area, the candidates are lined up in front of a small office, certificate books in hand. One candidate goes in at a time, they only seem to spend around five minutes there before quietly leaving. One goes out furiously blinking away tears. Lance has a feeling he won’t see them again.  
  
Soon, Lance is next to go in. He stares at ‘Office – Head instructor’, written along the frosted glass in thick, black lettering, trying to keep his breathing under control. A candidate slinks out.  
  
“Next.” Calls Gila’s voice from within.  
  
The room is small enough to feel like the walls are closing in on Lance, but large enough for the sturdy oak desk at the back of the office. Various, shining medals and plaques line the room, all bearing the HTUV logo in some form.  
  
On the back wall, behind Gila’s head, is a framed photograph of the graduating class from 1969. All twenty-two graduates wearing newly tailored HTUV suits, as well as matching, proud smirks. Lance sees someone in the middle-front row that he recognises but can’t figure out why. Her name is Renée Despereaux, according to the list along the bottom.  
  
In front of Gila sits a sleek HTUV computer. It is impossibly thin, with a faint blue glow emanating from the wide screen. She looks up at him and her eyes flash with a strange recognition.  
  
“Ah, Sterling. Take a seat and put your certificate book on the table. This won’t take very long, I assure you.” She gestures to the foldable steel chair placed in front of the desk with a fountain pen. She takes his book and flips it open to the first page, looking over the sheet and back to the computer with a squint. Lance sits with his hands on his knees, palms sweaty.  
  
“You don’t need to worry about passing this, Sterling.” Gila says after a moment of silence. “I’ve seen enough to know you’re a capable fighter. Especially during the last week with McFord.” Lance nods, not knowing what else to say, Gila doesn’t seem to expect a response.  
  
She makes absentminded ticks along the list of units covered by the first certificate, occasionally consulting the computer screen. There’s still scabs on her right knuckles. Lance stares at her scarred hands and wonders who else they’ve hurt.   
  
Gila scribbles her signature on the last line and makes a final tick. Pass. She looks over the book one more time before nodding, then stamping the page with the HTUV logo in red ink. She fans the book, so the ink dries without smudging, before handing it back to Lance.  
  
“Don’t fuck the rest of this up, Sterling,” she says in a gruff tone. Then she jerks her head to the door, an obvious dismissal that Lance is more than happy to comply with. He leaves the office and lets himself breathe.  
  
It’s with a jolt that Lance realises who the person was in that photograph.  
  
Her name was Renée Despereaux, soon to be Renée Sterling. His mother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :-)


	13. Phase III - (part v)

There is no training on the weekends, outside of the morning gauntlet. Instead, the candidates are assigned tasks to complete around the compound based on their specialty. Engineers were immediately shuffled over to the garage to run maintenance on the vehicles, and the communications specialists were assigned to check over, clean, and troubleshoot Camp Exspes equipment.

The operators, with their studies focused more on people, were given the miscellaneous jobs around the compound. Like maintaining the large assortment of firearms. Or sweeping the floors. Or cleaning the dishes. Or doing the laundry. Or, god forbid, latrine duty. Lance had no idea spy training would involve doing _chores_. He quickly trades dish duty for sweeping the garage, Rachel cusses him out for leaving her in that stainless-steel purgatory. 

Lance is given a large broom and dustpan and sent off to the garage to sweep away the dust that was blown in over the weeks. The large bay was occupied with the sounds of clattering tools and conversations.

As he sweeps, Lance notices Tristan giving a jeep an oil change. Tristan twists off the cap and snatches his hand away from the flowing oil with practiced ease. He looks up to see Lance and waves, his fingers are already blackened by grease stains.

“Take it the operators don’t have any special jobs like the rest of us, huh?” He says, checking the oil pan as it fills.

“We have the most important jobs of all, actually.” Lance replies with mock severity. “Can’t let the filth of everyday life accumulate in such a fine establishment.”

“Oh, truly.” There’s a pause, Tristan points to somewhere on the cement floor. “You missed a spot.”

Lance rolls his eyes.

“Go back to fisting a car.”

Tristan chuckles and twists the oil cap back on. Lance sweeps away the last of the accumulated dirt in the section. He did _not_ miss a spot.

As Lance leaves, he sees Jesse working with another candidate on a motorcycle that seems to have problems starting.

“Hey, Jesse!” Her head jerks up, face rising from her concentrated frown into the easy smile she usually fixes at her friends. “When were you an engineer? Thought you got into communications.” Jesse shrugs with one shoulder.

“I was until I realised technology outside of vehicles just ain’t my thing. Better crowd here, too.” Her and the other candidate share a fist bump.

Lance nods as the candidate tells her to start the bike. It comes to life with a guttural roar. Jesse gives Lance a thumbs up and a smirk.

“That took fifteen minutes to figure out.”

  
  
“Gross, I’ve been sweeping for forty.”

“Someday your prince will come, Cinderella.” Jesse says, nodding sagely.

Lance spends ten minutes looking around for Moira to chat with before he _remembers_. His good mood immediately evaporates.

* * *

Their first phone-in day takes up most of Sunday, the candidates are told to find their way to the call room and to ‘sort themselves out’. Lance and his friends agree to filter in and make their calls during lunch, when everyone else would be out of the room.

Lance punches in the most familiar phone number he knows. The dial tone rings twice before the voice of Warren Sterling picks up.

“Hello?” He sounds drowsy, maybe it’s night-time in DC.

“Hey, dad.”

“Lance! How are you? How was Second Phase? Are you at Camp Exspes right now?”

Lance relaxes at the sound of his dad’s voice. He hadn’t realised how much he’d missed him.

“I’m alright. The swamp was… something.”

Warren chuckles.

“Always is, your mother got charged by a bull alligator on her first day, still woozy from the anaesthetic and everything.”

Lance laughs, both at the image and the unexpected shared experience.

“Did you two end up travelling together?”

“Yeah, us and another candidate. It was actually the first time we’d spoken to each other.”

_“Really?”_

“You know how it is with training, you do all the socialising in First Phase and stick with that friend group afterwards.” Warren falls quiet. “I guess I’d left a good impression; the first week of my apprenticeship, I’m sent to the nearest phone because a trainee agent was wishing to speak with me.”

He sounds like he’s smiling through tears.

“She asked if I remembered her, and I told her she was that bayou rodeo clown from Second Phase. And… and we just clicked…” Warren trails off, Lance tries to move on to a different subject, but he knows his dad’s heart isn’t in it anymore. The call ends soon after.

“So, how’s you dad?” Asks Jesse, who was waiting for a free phone. Lance shrugs.

“He’s doing alright, all things considered. Turns out the reason I exist is because of the swamp.”

“I see. Thank you, for letting me know about that personal piece of information.” Lance rolls his eyes and Jesse chuckles. Lance sees Tristan in a nearby booth and goes over to bother him.

“Yeah, yeah, you should see some of the trucks here, Pete. Massive clunkers, all in good condition. Nicely reinforced, probably for our tactical driving segment. They’ve even got this old Harley chopper… I know! Probably the head instructors’...” There’s a pause and Lance can faintly hear Piotr’s voice on the other end, Tristan nods to it.

“Aw, tell me how the prototype testing goes, mate. Yeah… Talk to ya then… Bye.” Tristan puts the phone back in the receiver with a lingering smile. He startles when he sees Lance leaning on the wall to his side.

“So, how’d the call go with _Pete_?” Lance asks with a raised eyebrow.

“Went fine you nosy twit.” He grumbles, ears bright red. “How’s your dad?”

“He’s good.”

There’s a beat of silence before Tristan speaks up.

“I’m gonna spend a bit more time here. See if I can reach Moira, that is, if she got a job at HTUV. Unless, you have…? You two were pretty close.”

It’s with a rush of guilt that Lance realises he’d never even considered phoning Moira. Tristan seems to clue-in to Lance’s hesitation, because he gives Lance a soft smile, hands him the phone, and shows him the convoluted way he was meant to call. Then Tristan goes with Rachel to grab lunch for the four of them before the canteen shuts.

* * *

Lance dials an inconspicuous telephone number, it’s no different to his dad’s or anyone else’s except for the fact every third number is eight. He waits for the fifth dial tone, like Tristan had told him, then speaks.

“I’m looking to start a conversation.”

The dial tone stops.

“Name.” Says a flat voice.

“Moira Callaghan.”

“Alright, hold on.” The voice grunts. There’s the sound of a clacking keyboard and then Lance is redirected, the dial tone ringing once again.

“Hello?” Lance smiles at the sound of Moira’s, albeit somewhat tinny and congested, voice.

“Hey, granny.”

Moira lets out a breathy laugh.

“Holy shit, hey Lance.”

“How’s uh…” _Your face? your pride?_ “How have things been? Take it you’re at HQ right now.”

“Yeah, after I got the shit beaten out of me,” Lance winces at how blunt she sounds, “med bay patched me up and had me fill out a form. Then I spent the night there, and in the morning, when you all were out at morning training, I was shuttled away to an airstrip and flown back to HQ.

“I was sat down in front of a panel of interviewers, they went over all these reports on me. I was half convinced I was about to be charged for assault, until they offered me an apprenticeship under a mission coordinator.”

Lance jerks back in surprise and smiles.

“No way, so you’re gonna be telling the rest of us what to do then, huh?”

Moira scoffs.

“Not like you’d listen. You three stooges like to go off and do your own thing.”

“Hey! We can multitask.” Moira chuckles.

“How is everyone?” Her voice is noticeably vulnerable at the question. Lance wonders how lonely she is right now, separated from her friends and forced to re-establish herself in a new environment.

“We’ve been good, Phase Three’s been kicking our asses… shit. Sorry.” Lance realises his mistake too late.

Moira sighs, sending a cluster of feedback into Lance’s ear.

“It’s alright, don’t worry about it.”

“Are you alright?”

“I don’t want to talk a out it right now, Lance.” Moira sounds tired. “I don’t really want to start sobbing in the middle of HQ, y’know how it is.” She adds with forced joviality. Neither laugh.

Lance moves the conversation more towards Moira’s apprenticeship and what work is like in HTUV. She seemed to brighten up at the change of topic, detailing how coordinators worked as go-betweens from department to department, keeping things working smoothly through sheer charisma. More often than not, they ended up as the mission’s voice, relaying any information, or warning, from the command centre to the field agent teams.

She was working under someone named Rupert Lindt, he sounded vaguely familiar to Lance. Moira spoke highly of him, saying he commanded a room with only an expression, and that he seemed to know everyone working in HTUV. A tension in Lance begins to relax upon hearing his friend enthusiastic once again. Phase III had beaten away that spark in her, he was grateful to hear it back once more.

They end the call after the better part of half an hour, Moira promising to be working when Lance was allowed to contact her.

_It seems like I’m never done working here, sometimes I get called in a three am to shadow Lindt during a mission. But it’s so cool Lance, you should_ see _these agents in action._

As Lance, Tristan, Rachel and Jesse walk back to the barracks, Lance’s head is filled with daydreams of being a field agent. Him ripping down a motorway, chasing an infamous jewel thief while Moira supplies him with road maps and directions, they exchange back and forth while Lance makes death defying stunts. There’s an explosion behind him - it’s very cool.

Then, Lance frowns.

“Hey, guys.” The three turn to look at Lance. “Where’s David?”

Jesse’s eyes widen. “Oh shit. Where is David?”

“I haven’t seen him since the day Moira dropped…” Tristan mutters, frowning at the floor.

“I think he might have DoR’ed, after what happened with Gila.” Says Rachel, “I’d heard of a couple people dropping after it. Maybe he was one of them.”

Lance stares ahead. Worried that he hadn’t noticed David’s absence until a week later. Who else had fallen under his radar? Lance folds away that worry and tucks it back in his skull. Right now, he has to focus on himself and getting through this phase. It shouldn’t affect him, who drops and who doesn’t.

It shouldn’t, but it does.

* * *

**Certificate II – Marksmanship Mastery**

During Phase I, the candidates were taught to fire with both eyes open. Most military and police force courses still teach to shoot with one eye shut but, according to Wells, during times of high stress, the brain opens both eyes so it can gather as much environmental information as possible. If the candidates are only taught to shoot with one eye open, their accuracy will be impacted during a real-life fire fight, as both eyes will instinctively be wide open. 

On their first day Gila has them line up facing a thick, brick wall and shoot at skeletargets eight and fifteen metres away. The targets depict a human silhouette, with the basic anatomy of their torso and skull colour coded in primary colours. Lance focuses on keeping his hands steady and shortening the time between shots without sacrificing accuracy. Their shots are recorded by instructors, assigning points to the corresponding area of impact.

“If you and an aggressor are in a fire fight, and you come face to face with them: one shot, even a double tap, won’t suffice. If someone is coming at you with intent to kill, you unload the entire magazine into their putrid body before they get the chance. Conflict happens in the blink of an eye; you won’t have a chance to talk things out.”

Lance lands a shot in the middle of the skeletarget’s head. Gila yells at him to aim for centre mass. _Don’t try and fucking show off, the head’s too small a target to hit in a real fight. All you’ll get from trying to big-note yourself in front of an enemy is a gut-shot._

The handguns HTUV uses, a modified Beretta M9, has a seventeen-round magazine and a two-slot Picatinny rail, for the attachment of laser sights and lights. Apparently, the military’s pushing for similar upgrades, as they have no rail and a fifteen-round magazine.

The candidates are drilled on fully disassembling and reassembling the gun to the point where they can do it blindfolded. Lance jams his thumb between the slide and grip, it leaves an impressive dent in his nail. Gila also shows them how to field strip the gun for repair and maintenance.

* * *

When they move onto bolt-action rifles, Tristan flourishes.

The shooting range has a dedicated area for long range shooting that was cleared of most flora, black and white signs breaking it up into four sectors. Large, yellow range fans bracket the perimeter on either side. Metal targets dot along the range at varying distances. Out by the one-hundred metre mark, a blue glass bottle is perched innocently on a log.

The Winchester Model 70s they’re given have iron sights instead of scopes, to familiarise the candidates with the rifles and ensuring they keep both eyes open before moving to scopes. The recoil kicks into Lance’s shoulder each time, leaving the joint sore and bruised. The metal targets they shoot at have sensors and a network of wires spidering throughout them. A bullet impact is registered, and is graded on accuracy. Total accuracy is converted into a percentage based on the grouping of each five-round magazine.

Lance has never been a patient man, mind more geared towards the sudden and immediate. He struggles to find the focus to properly line up each shot. The time needed to calm a racing heartbeat, empty one’s lungs, and sit there until the right moment came, is simply too long. Beside him, Tristan has only fired seven times. His target is slowly gaining one, large hole in its centre.

It attracts the attention of Gila, who was shown Tristan’s current accuracy percentage (95, a new record if he maintains it) by an instructor. She strides over to him.

“McFord.”

“Yes, sir.” Tristan replies, left eye peering down the barrel.

“You have prior experience with long range shooting?”

“Some, sir. Through hunting and the army.”

Gila hums, watching Tristan exhale softly. She lifts a pair of binoculars to her eyes. He holds himself with empty lungs, aligning the sights. He squeezes the trigger. Another chunk of the target’s centre is blown away. With a fluid movement, Tristan brings back the bolt and the empty cartridge leaps out of the receiver to joins it brethren on the ground.

“McFord, I want to make a bet with you.” Tristan doesn’t move, but his breath hitches.

“Y’see that bottle out there, at Two-Alpha?” Tristan moves the gun from sector four to sector two.

“Yes, sir.”

“If you shoot that bottle, I’m putting you forward for basic sniper training.” Lance, who can’t help himself, turns to watch. He catches Tristan’s small nod. “And if you miss, well, you may be performance dropped.” Lance’s heart jumps into his throat. Tristan’s eyes widen minutely.

_What?_

_Not much of a bet…_

“May, sir?”

“You gonna take it or not, trainee? Only two or three candidates get the chance to train with the high-powered rifles.” Tristan swallows. The bottle shines in the distance, almost smaller now.

“Let’s see how good my aim is, then.” He says, quietly. Lance bites his lip nervously, watching Tristan with a furrowed brow. Gila nods in approval.

As Tristan centres himself and lines up the shot, Gila kneels down by his left, getting close to his face.

“You’re not gonna make the shot. Who do you think you are coming here, trying to play at being a spy when you can’t even hit a target… ” She whispers, spit landing on Tristan’s cheek. Lance watches, worried for him, but he doesn’t see any lines of tension in Tristan’s body. He’s almost meditative.

“… May as well just cart you back to Australia, all you’ll be good for is scrumming around as a swagman…”

Tristan takes a quiet breath in, moving his index finger off the trigger guard and onto the trigger. He empties his lungs and sits there, hand steady.

“… I’ve had new recruits take better shots in half the time you’ve been at this staring off into the distance. What if this was a mission? Your partner would be dead by now!” She’s yelling in his ear, intense and vicious. Tristan squeezes the trigger, pulling his finger back in a straight motion as to not jerk the gun sideways.

One-hundred metres away, a bottle explodes into thousands of tiny shards from the impact of a high-calibre bullet. Gila stops mid-sentence, staring at the spot the glass once was with wide eyes. Then she cackles, slapping Tristan's back.

“Knew you had it in you, McFord! Little bit more training and we’ll make a sniper of you yet.”

Tristan sighs heavily and rests his forehead on the butt of the rifle in relief. Lance lets go of the breath he was holding, pulse racing in his fingertips.

“Didn’t tell you to stop, Sterling.” Snaps Gila. “Get that accuracy up while you still can. And for God’s sake, put more time between each shot, this isn’t Rambo.”

* * *

They’re in the cafeteria, dinner being artisanal, lovingly made ham and cheese sandwiches. The bread feels fake somehow, like it’s only vaguely aware of what real bread is like. Jesse claps Tristan on the shoulder as she takes the seat beside him.

“Holy shit, dude.” She remarks, grinning.

“Nice shooting, Tex.” Says Rachel.

“Wasn’t a big deal,” says Tristan with a grin, knowing it _was_ , in fact, a big deal. Jesse gives him an exasperated look.

“So, that means you’re going to get that fancy sniper training, huh?” Asks Rachel.

Tristan nods, taking a bite of the sandwich.

“I don’t remember learning how to shoot like that in the marines, so either you Australians have better training, or this is something else.” Says Jesse, picking away the crust of her dinner.

“My dad and uncle used to take me out hunting as a kid in the outback. Y’know, lizards, turkeys, cats, rabbits.” Tristan shrugs. “It was something about manhood or whatever. I was nine, so I was just happy to be out of the house.”

“Wait, you guys shoot cats?”

“There’s turkeys in Australia?”

Lance and Jesse say, simultaneously. Tristan huffs a laugh. He explains the cat problem in Australia, and that, yes, there’s a healthy population of wild turkey puttering about.

He doesn’t mention how he began going out to hunt game and pests himself, for a price. Or how someone offered ten grand for him to kill a man. The offer was worryingly tempting, but Tristan’s morals had won out over his need for the money. He joined the army not long after, hoping to become an engineer. To be independent. To get out of that house.

* * *

For the rest of the certificate, Tristan and Xiao, the only other candidate to be picked for specialised training, are carted out into the desert each day, for two hours. Two well maintained Barrett M82s, both given the HTUV treatment with a twelve-round magazine, lighter frame, and advanced muzzle brake to reduce recoil. They’re shown how to work the HTUV laser rangefinders and given a crash course on milliradians and minute-of-arcs.

The guns are sleek and deceptively light. The HTUV logo is embossed on the butt of the rifle, glossy despite the dust. Even when not being fired, they seem to radiate power. Power of potential violence, power to the wielder. Tristan’s palms itch to fire it.

An instructor with a lisp shows them how to mount the scope, the different positions one can use for an effective shot and how to stalk enemies without being discovered. It’s the highlight of Tristan’s year, deftly making minute adjustments to the scope’s alignment, the bipod, and his posture. Inhale, exhale, shoot. The world goes silent as the noise-cancelling headphone block out the deafening bang of the rifle. This is the closest thing he gets to meditating.

Meanwhile, Lance gets chewed out by Gila for using up all the rounds in half the time provided while having abysmal accuracy. She has him clean and reassemble every Winchester used that day, to teach him patience. It doesn’t teach him patience, but it does improve his speed in cleaning and reassembling the rifle. Gila is less than impressed, and Lance spends another five hours cleaning the handgun, _because he’s so good at it now_. 

* * *

They’re in the office again, Gila scratches the ticks and Lance’s average accuracy with handguns and rifles into the book. The red stamp goes down, Gila hands the book back to Lance.

“Make sure your partner’s the one with the high-powered rifle, Sterling, I have a feeling long range just isn’t for you.”

Lance’s handgun average was a clean eighty percent. He won’t tell you his rifle accuracy, just know it scraped a pass.

Out of the four of them, Rachel has the most skill with handguns, scoring a ninety percent accuracy with the compact Beretta. Jesse performed the best on the carbine rifle assault course, where a candidate went down a line shooting at targets in different positions, guided by an instructor.

In the barracks, Tristan shows off the shining, bronze HTUV symbol stuck to his certificate book that marks his completion of the HTUV sniper course. Jesse pokes at it with a raised eyebrow.

“You sure it’s a badge there, Tex?” She asks, peering at it. 

“Yeah, it’s what Gila called it.” Tristan says, puffed up.

“Looks like a sticker.” Jesse tries to pick at it. Tristan snatches the book away, quickly deflated.

“It’s not!”

Jesse cackles and tells him he got a sticker from the teacher for all his hard work. Tristan sulks the rest of their free weekend, ears red with indignation.

* * *

Lance calls his dad. There might have been a cold snap in DC because he had something of a cough near the end of it. Moira is enthusiastic as ever, regaling Lance with the story of how Lindt managed to juggle four field agent teams at once during a high stakes mission that spanned across the globe, chasing down someone who had stolen a prototype chemical weapon from a lab in Albania.

Apparently, the development of such a weapon in the first place is illegal, so the Albanian government were reticent to accept HTUV’s help. Lindt had managed to ease tensions and keep the teams in working order, the weapon and thief being taken into HTUV custody where neither could do more harm ever again.

“It was nasty stuff too, Lance.” Says Moira, she sounds like she’s just gotten off a rollercoaster, voice all jittery and excited. “it can react with the oils naturally secreted from our skin in a violent, exothermic reaction. One of the agents got sprayed with a small amount and the skin essentially melted off her arm. They pretty much had gotten their hands on liquid thermite. Good thing we’ve locked it away now, can’t imagine what that could do in the wrong hands.”

Officials had refused to divulge the reason the weapon was being developed in the first place. But Lance doubts Projekti: Derr Çrrënjos, Uprooting Boar, was anything innocent.

He realises how isolated him and his fellow candidates are to the rest of the world. The nineties and its previous decades has been tumultuous to say the least; who knows what’s been going on since January.

Lance tries to call David, while they hadn’t talked much, they’d still sat and enjoyed each other’s company during the first four phases. But when Lance says his full name, David Ortega, the person on the other end of the line tells him they have no one working there with that name. Then they hang up, and Lance is left with a dead line and no answers.

“Maybe he just cut his losses and opened that coffee shop he’d always wanted.” Suggests Jesse, after Lance tells them about the call attempt. It does little to assuage his worries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jesse is once again doing the important job of bullying tristan into being humble, it's not much but it's honest work  
> cheeky bit of tristan backstory there, too ;)  
> ayyy, moira's back, sorta


	14. Phase III - (part vi)

**Certificate III – Strategic Driving and Tactical Mobility**

The seven Ford Crown Victorias lining the back of the garage have sturdy metal reinforcements welded on to their front and rear fenders. Their windows, cracked as they were, had a strong mesh stuck to their insides. The radios didn’t work and the anti-lock breaks had been disengaged. They were ugly, clunky cars with musty seats.

To Lance, they were nothing short of perfect as he executes a sharp J-turn between the brackets of small, orange cones. Dust kicks up and flows into around the chipped, grey exterior. The instructor in the passenger seat types a handful of notes into their tablet, nodding.

“Again.”

The third certificate had appealed to Lance the most. Car chases in movies were his favourite kind of action scenes as a kid. The fact that he was being taught how to carry out stunts like the ones in Mad Max or Robocop made him almost giddy.

The beginning of the certificate had involved familiarising the trainees with skidding and drifting in the cars, as many of the manoeuvres involved one or both at some point. The roiling, sandy surface allowed the cars to lose traction and start fish tailing or drifting. The first handful of days were spent out on an old race track just throwing the cars around, feeling for centre of gravity and weight distribution.

Jesse managed to spin her car in three donuts before one of the instructors yelled at her to stop, she’s still smug about it. Rachel, having grown up in New York and only learned how to drive when she went to university out of state, was the most cautious when it came to driving.

Gila had gotten in the cab with her and made Rachel pin down the throttle and try to spin the car out. She’d even managed to roll the car and, having recovered from it unscathed, gained some more confidence in her abilities.

Tristan seems almost bored when he runs through Position to Cover but Lance knows better; his brows are knitted in concentration as he pulls the handbrake to lock the back wheels, rapidly turning the steering wheel with one hand to guide it through the skid. The car stops in a parallel park within the cone boundaries as Tristan eases the footbrake on. A red plume of Sonora dust crawls over the tyres. Lance feels it would look cooler if he a smirk on, instead of that customary frown.

* * *

The Pit Manoeuvre involves two cars, for the sake of experience, candidates drive both cars with instructors supervising in the passenger seats. The back car would match speeds with the front, aligning its fender with the front’s rear axle. Then, the back car would turn into the other with a sudden movement and step on the gas, powering through the front car and have it spin out of control, forcing it to stop.

It looks intense from an outsider’s perspective, but Lance finds that from behind the wheel, the stunt is surprisingly smooth and low energy. Of course, it’s still considered a use of lethal force by the law, but it’s an anticlimactic use of lethal force. The manoeuvre is meant to end car chases or to push another vehicle out of the way _during_ a chase.

“Once, when I was sick and home alone, I ended up watching seven consecutive hours of Cops.” Says Jesse, in the cafeteria afterwards. “They did the Pit Manoeuvre, like, fifty times. It looks cooler than it feels, gotta be honest.”

“It’s plenty high adrenaline for me,” remarks Rachel, who's still jittery from the day's training.

“Just wait until we move on to the bikes, Rachel.” Says Tristan with a smirk, Rachel groans and rests her head on the table.

* * *

High-speed reversing is a pain in the ass for everyone, it’s an unnatural way to move and you have to fight the front wheel drive so the front of car doesn’t whip around. The trick was to lean on the chair sideways, using only your dominant foot on the pedal, and stare out the back window. It made for a more straightforward translation between the turning of the wheel and the movement of the car. It was still nerve wracking trying to weave between the cones within the time limit, without hitting them.

The candidates are talked through the Driver Down drill before being loaded into the cars. One instructor drives while another sits in the back, monitoring the events. At a random point in time, the driver will lose consciousness.

After forty seconds of Lance waiting on edge in anticipation, the instructor suddenly slumps to the left, turning the wheel as they do. Lance immediately removes his belt and reaches across to grab the safety handle of the driver’s door to hold them in position. In a jerky, unpracticed motion Lance sweeps their legs off to the side and shimmies closer to the wheel and pedals.

Operating the gas and brake with his left foot only, Lance continues through the course and comes to a complete stop at the end. The instructor promptly regains ‘consciousness’ and tells him to get off.

Tristan may be the guns guy, but Lance is the driver. He wasn’t big on cars themselves, more on the adrenaline rush from the controlled chaos manoeuvres. Their first week ends with a simulated car chase, with the candidate starting out as the chaser, then the one being chased. Lance’s natural strategist emerged as he chased the instructor’s car. Risking a loss of control by driving off the road to cut a sharp corner, then hitting the instructor’s car with a Pit Manoeuvre when he caught up. They spun out of control and Lance finished the chase in half the time required.

Escaping the instructor for the full timeframe was trickier, requiring more focus on what’s in front and behind him. More quick thinking to plan a way into tricking the chaser into losing speed and gaining distance between them. Lance’s mind rushed with possible exit plans and quick turns to catch the instructor off guard and remain out of their grasp. The thrill of it makes his palms sweat, and Lance bares his teeth in a grin as he dodges and swerves out of reach.

_I could get used to this._

* * *

While all candidates could drive, only a small fraction, including Jesse and Tristan, could ride motorcycles. So, while Lance, Rachel and thirty others awkwardly straddle the HTUV dual-sport bikes, learning how to release the clutch and change gears; the more experienced trainees went through counter steering and weight distribution for sharp turns. The padded textile jacket was uncomfortably warm in the midday sun, but the warm equipment was necessary for their protection, as explained to them by an instructor Lance swears isn’t much older than them.

“You’re dressing for the slide, not the ride.” She says, showing them the different gloves, helmets, boots, and jackets HTUV supplied its agents. “If you’re lucky enough to become a suit, the Dry Cleaners’ll oftentimes install deployable leather suits that fit over your current outfit, should the need to ride a bike arise.”

As the instructor demonstrates how to feel for the gears, one up and five down, Lance catches sight of Jesse and Tristan’s group on the other side of the dirt track. They’re lined up, facing away from them. A shrill whistle blows and dust churns into the air as back wheels spin in place.

“Shit. Alright folks, off the track.” Urges their instructor.

The bikes race forward, some riders leaning into the movement for that fraction of distance ahead. Lance’s group watch as the nine racers gain momentum on the flat section of the oval. On the turn, one rider loses balance and their bike slides on its side off the track. Lance hears their curses from the other side of the oval. The others pitch their weight to the inside of the curve, handlebars kept straight.

The riders weave between each other, trying to snatch first place. Lance sees one rider throw their bike into a wheelie, the surrounding bikes jerk away and the rider jolts forward before the gap closes. Another sends their bike off the track, avoiding the other riders altogether. They stand up, arms loose to absorb the rough terrain’s bumpy ride. They put more onto the throttle and with a bodily heave, the bike launches off the lip of a ditch, flying through the air and crashing back onto the track ahead of the other riders. The rider catches themselves with their foot and they quickly straighten.

On the final stretch, the race seems to be between those two riders. As they near the finish line, the rider in front keeps steadily in front of the other so they don’t overtake. Lance sees the rear rider shake their head. Then, the rear rider inches forward, clipping the other’s back wheel with their front wheel as it turns. The front rider brakes almost instinctively and the rear rider races past them, taking first place.

Jesse skids to a halt, throws off her helmet and yells in victory, giving Tristan the middle finger as he rolls into second place. Tristan flips his visor up so Jesse can see his frown.

“Dangerous bloody move there.”

“Rich coming from you, wheelie boy.” Says Jesse, midway through a victory dance. “You’re just jealous that I won, and you didn’t. Who’s the better racer now, huh?” Tristan shakes his head and meets eyes with Lance, giving him an _are you seeing this right now?_ look. He hits the kickstand down with his leather boot, swinging a leg off the seat. When the race is over, an instructor records the times in their ever-present tablet. Lance’s instructor turns to his group.

“Don’t expect to be able to do that by the end of the week.” She pauses. “Also don’t _attempt_ the tricks you just saw; some of you still mix up the clutch and front brake.”

* * *

Maybe it’s because Lance enjoys driving and riding, and it isn’t as physically demanding as the previous certificates, but the two weeks pass quickly. He can make sharp turns without fear of crashing and counter steering is at least familiar to him. Tristan still loses to Jesse in each race, something Jesse refuses to let him forget. Rachel finally manages to downshift gears.

Once again, he sits in that office. Now, Lance stares intently at the class of ‘69’s photographs. Rupert Lindt sits in the top left row. He has dirty-blond hair that’s slicked back, and a careful, calculating gaze. Even from the picture, Lance feels like he’s being watched by Lindt.

Along the bottom row, Lance tries to identify his mother’s partner. It’d make sense for her to be sitting beside them, then it’d be Eloise Fischer, but they’re also lined up in neat rows of eleven. So, what if her partner is above her, making them Ranveer Bhalla. Or, what if the seating was random or based on height? It could be any of them.

Lance is jolted out of his musings by a sharp slap on the table. He sees his certificate book in Gila’s hand, holding it out to him. Lance murmurs an apology and takes the book. Gila watches his retreating back with a raised eyebrow.

* * *

As Moira finishes regaling him with her first attempt at coordinating a low-level mission, Lance remembers something he’d been meaning to ask:

“Hey, do you have any idea what happened to David?”

Moira makes a confused sound.

“What do you mean by that? He just opened a small café on the third floor. I haven’t gone to it yet, too busy, but I’m told it’s pretty good.” 

“But he dropped, like, four weeks ago and I haven’t been able to get a hold of him.”

“Huh… maybe try now? The café only cropped up this week, maybe he was busy getting it sorted out?” Moira doesn’t sound too sure of her reasoning either, but it’s worth a shot.

“Yeah, alright. Call you in a while.”

“See you then, baby face.” Moira replies with a chuckle.

Lance lets out a loud groan, pushing in the button on the receiver. Her and Jesse must have been talking. He redials the number asking for another name.

This time, David picks up.

“Good evening, this is David from the Dark and Stormy Brew, how can I help you?”

“Hey, David, it’s Lance.”

“Oh shit, hey man!”

“Yeah, how’s it been going?” Lance doesn’t wait for a response before continuing, “hey, I tried calling you a couple weeks ago, but the person on the other end said you didn’t work for HTUV. Any reason they said that?”

David hums, like this is strange news to him.

“I think there might have been a mix up with employment and all. I’m an independent contractor that’s renting space in HTUV, so I’m technically not HTUV staff.” There’s a pause, Lance nodding his head and David waiting for an objection.

“It’s all sorted now, though, considering we’re talking right now.” He adds, when Lance doesn’t reply.

“Yeah, guess so.” Says Lance, not totally convinced.

“Sorry, man, I wish we could talk more, but right now I’ve got a gaggle of harried looking interns coming over. They look like the techies’ so the order’s gonna be huge. Call me when you can, okay?”

Lance barely has time to agree before David hangs up.

“Alright… that mystery’s solved.” Lance says to himself as he hooks the phone into the receiver. He sighs and tries to banish the suspicion; he has more important things to worry about right now.

* * *

**Certificate IV – Introduction to HTUV technology**

The fourth certificate has the most units to it, each denoting a separate piece of HTUV technology.

“The hell are cufflink drones?”

“Think the name somewhat spells it out for you there, Jess.” Replies Tristan, reading the same page as her.

“I’m liking the sound of the lighter hand grenades, anyone else?” Says Lance.

Rachel rolls her eyes, “of course you’re an emerging pyromaniac.”

They’re in the only classroom in Camp Exspes, several rows of desks and chairs face a white wall. A n instructor has yet to arrive so everyone is reading through the certificate book and chatting amongst themselves.

“Grappling gun? Like, a legit grappling gun?”

“Belt sword. Just: belt sword.”

“Is anyone going to bring up the bowtie boomerang thing, or are we gonna gloss over that?”

An immediate hush falls over the room as Gila strides in.

“If you hens are done clucking, it’s time to begin your certificate on HTUV technology.” Two instructors carry in large cases. As they place them on the gable in front of Gila, she continues. “As field agents, HTUV outfits you with some the most advanced technology do date. Your suits are one of them, but that’s not what we’re here for.

The instructors begin removing items from the cases, a gold-plated zippo lighter shines in the light.

“General consensus is an agent’s only as good as their gadgets. Well, we have some damn good agents out there.

Lance looks at the ten inconspicuous gadgets on the table in front of him.

A lighter, a pair of sunglasses, a cigarette case.

Cufflinks, a fountain pen, a bowtie, a wristwatch.

A pocket watch, a thick barrelled pistol, a leather belt.

“We have ten fingers, each important for daily life. An agent uses these ten gadgets in their everyday life.” Gila nods to the instructors who stand at the wall. She picks up the pen, uncapping the lacquered lid to expose the sharp, iridium nib.

“This is the Piranha Pen, named after the chemical it holds. Piranha etch is a strong oxidising solution; one part hydrogen peroxide, three parts concentrated sulphuric acid. Some labs use it to clean glassware or silicon wafers. We use it for less honourable reasons.”

Gila twists the small brass ring in the middle of the pen. Lance hears a minute click. Gila holds it over the table and presses a button on the top end of the barrel with her thumb. A clear, colourless solution gathers at the end of the nib. Then it falls onto the table in steady drops. It bursts into hissing orange flames the moment it connects. The three or so drops that fell from the pen had burned a deep hole three inches in diameter.

“It reacts strongly to organic compounds. Including human flesh.”

She shows them the mechanism to activate the pen. The pen was strangely large and heavy, with small, brass piranha etchings along the barrel, so as not to mistake it for a real pen. The reservoir holds fifteen millilitres of the solution, enough to break a lock. Or torture someone.

“These beauties,” Gila sets the pen away and picks up a pair of Wayfarer sunglasses, HTUV blue with mirrored lenses. “Connects to the three cufflink drones via FPV. The drones send live video and audio feed to both the wearer and HQ.” She taps the large frames. “They used to use Jackie-O’s until the techies released the new Mark VII’s, better wiring, sturdier, higher resolution feed. The drones have AI tech as well, so you can pilot one and the other two form sophisticated flight paths around it.”

The belt, when snapped like a whip, would stiffen, and become an agent’s baton. It’s a plain black leather with a silvery belt buckle.

“Techies like to call it a sword, but there’s no sharp edges. This is strictly for bludgeoning and the melee weapons combat you’ve been trained for. Push the belt buckle down to release the locks, and the belt returns to its normal function.” She does just that, coiling the belt and replacing it on the table beside the pen and sunglasses.

“Now, reason you’re given two types of watches is because they serve different functions. The pocket watch has been out of fashion for decades, but it’s served field agents well since HTUV’s inception.”

The pocket watch has a fake clockface, use your thumbnail to pry it open and inside was an agent’s HTUV badge with emergency beacon. It once was used as a small camera and listening device during the Cold War. After the cufflink drones came into HTUV use, it soon fell out of practice.

“The wristwatch certainly picks up the slack of its predecessor.” Gila holds it in her palm, HTUV emblem glittering silver in the watch face. She pulls up the crown and twists the bezel. “It is now live. Press one of these pushers and a small dart will be launched.” She reaches into one of the cases and pulls out a finned vessel the size of Lance’s thumbnail.

“When it impacts with human skin, the dart will release a small dose of barbiturates. It won’t knock them out, but it’ll make them dizzy and uncoordinated. It can turn the tide of a nasty fight or help capture a flighty target.” Gila disengages the watch and sets it with the rest.

The cigarette case held small trackers that could cling to just about any surface in any environment. “They’ll probably replace it with a mint tin or something - smoking’s not very hip and trendy these days.”

The bowtie and non-drone cufflinks would be covered in Phase IV when the candidates are fitted for suits and learn how to move and fight in them. Lance feels a rush of excitement at the thought of it.

“This is a horizontal grappling gun.” Gila hefts up the pistol. “You won’t be scaling buildings: its purpose is to create a zipline from one point to another that one may not be able to reach through conventional means.”

She shows them the hooks on the projectile end, large and sickle shaped. Strong enough to sink into concrete and keep its grip. The cord is durable and elastic, designed to support the body weight of two agents simultaneously.

“Out here in Arizona you aren’t going to find much use out of it. But in cities and mountainous areas, this’ll come in handy.”

Finally, Gila smirks and holds up the lighter.

“This beauty has saved the lives of hundreds of field agents in the decades it’s been in production.” She flicks the lid off with her thumb in a practiced motion. “works fine as a normal lighter, but I wouldn’t be using it too often. In the chamber here,” She points to the body of the grenade, “holds twenty grams of compressed thermite. The chamber above it holds ten grams of gunpowder. Close the lid, press down on the side closest to the hinge. It’ll whine, that means it’s live. Throw it where it’ll hurt the most and get behind cover.”

Gila holds it the lighter in her palm, rolling it in her fingers.

“Today, you’re all gonna learn how to use the lighter grenade.”

Lance perks up.

* * *

The candidates are all fitted with thick Kevlar vests and helmet, then shuffled out to a small range. Thick concrete slabs form circles along different distances and U-shaped bunkers for the candidates to throw in dot the range. 

The goal was to throw the grenade in the circles, and also not to get blown up.

Lance wouldn’t call himself a nerd. But when one is raised _by_ a nerd with multiple degrees in theoretical physics and applied mathematics, you pick things up. Like how to calculate projectile motion.

“Wait… alright, explain it to me again.” Says Tristan, turning away from the bunker and facing Lance with a concentrated expression. Lance puffs out his cheeks in a sigh.

“Okay, so you have the lighter, in your hand.”

“Yes.”

“And when you throw it, the lighter moves in a parabolic motion - moving in a curved path under the effect of the earth’s gravity.”

“Okay…”

“And you can calculate the magnitude of displacement by using Pythagoras’ theorem with the horizontal and vertical displacement being x and y.”

“Why… why would I need to know that though.”

“You don’t, you just asked and I thought it’d be fun to explain.”

Tristan blinks at Lance.

“We’ve been sitting here for five bloody minutes talking about maths, when I could’ve just been winging grenades out into the desert?”

“Your aim’s shit with them, dude! I was trying to help you understand the math in it!”

Tristan groans and releases his third grenade. It lands some distance away from the circle, detonating in a screeching hiss of white and red light. Glowing orange particles of gunpowder and bits of the lighter fly out in all directions.

“You gotta take wind speed and angle of initial velocity into account.”

“Lance.”

“Yeah?”

“Please stop talking.”

Lance shrugs and throws his grenade, which lands in the circle, again. The slabs shudder from the impact but otherwise hold steady. He gestures to the spot the lighter once was.

“See?”

The day passes with the percussive, sharp explosions of several lighter grenades. One of the instructors hands out fragmentation grenades, showing them how to operate the more conventional explosive. Gila chews out a candidate near Lance and Tristan for fucking around with a live grenade, potentially endangering himself and everyone around him. 

Dinner is interrupted suddenly when a young man walks up to their table. He glares at Lance.

“Sterling.”

Lance turns up from his dinner, penne pasta with shredded cheese.

“I’m sorry, do I know you?”

“You should, I’m Jason Wallace.”

Lance slowly shakes his head.

“Name doesn’t ring a bell, sorry.” Lance turns back to his food. Jason’s hand slams onto the table. Beside Lance, Tristan instinctively grips his plastic knife.

“You think you’re so much better than all of us. You’re getting it easy from all the instructors; even Gila. You fuck up and they just look the other way.”

“Dude, is there a point to this? I’m trying to have dinner-”

“Did your parents bribe the instructors so they let you through? All of us here have been getting shouted at and abused by Gila, except you. What’re you doing that we’re not? Fucking her?”

Lance sees his friends look at Jason with varying degrees of shock and offense on his behalf. Lance blinks slowly.

“Listen, Jackson,” Lance’s voice is tight with irritation, he tries to relax in order to appear apathetic. “I don’t know what brought this on, you’re not really anyone to me. But maybe the reason Gila’s giving you a hard time is because you’re not doing that great.”

“Lis-“

“I’m not finished.” Lance raises a finger. “I have a feeling I don’t know nor recognise you because you’re just some average guy with average abilities. Maybe you’re jealous I’m not as _brutally victimised_ as you are, even though you probably deserve it.

“If we’ve got something that needs sorting out, then let’s sort it out in the sparring ring. Prove to everyone the reason Gila doesn’t bite my head off every day is because I somehow rigged the system.”

Lance’s gaze drills into Jason. “Unless, you know that isn’t true. You’ve seen my fights; I don’t pull my punches.” Lance raises his voice. “I’m damn good at what I do, Jeremy. If you want first-hand experience of it, be my guest.”

Jason glares down at Lance. Lance stares back with a placid smile and dark eyes. He wouldn’t mind a good fight with this pretentious brat. With a scoff, Jason turns and stalks back to his table. Lance rolls his eyes. Jesse watches him sit with a poorly concealed glare. He hears someone at Jason’s table hiss _what the fuck was that dude?_ And another asking if he’s really going to fight Lance. Jason replies to neither.

“The hell’s his problem.” Says Tristan, leaning on his elbows to peer at the man.

“He’s Director Wallace’s grandson,” murmurs Rachel. “Before I started hanging out with you guys, I was in his group. He’s been raised to become a field agent like his dad and grandad.” She pushes a piece of penne around with her fork.

“Probably came to training with the belief that he’d be on top and the other candidates would be fawning over him, only to find no one cares who anyone is and that there are many others leagues above him.

“The ego goes pop, and childhood complexes begin to make themselves known. This has been building since Phase One, all that shallow confidence drying up, leaving nothing but an angry little boy.”

Rachel stares at him like how a cat watches a mouse scurry by. Jason catches her gaze, which suddenly darkens and snarls into a non-verbal threat, _stay away from my friends_. He wilts and averts his eyes. Rachel’s face returns to a calm expression and she stabs the pasta innocently. The other three once again find themselves staring at her in bewilderment.

“Remind me not to cross you, Rach.” Says Jesse, who looks openly impressed. Lance and Tristan nod in agreement, Rachel gives them a bitter half smile.

“He’s not the first guy like that that I’ve encountered. Only this time, he’s not getting away with mediocracy. Guess HTUV can’t afford to be nepotistic in the face of danger.”

* * *

They move on to the rest of the gadgets. Rachel shows a terrifying precision with the darts and drones. Jesse and Lance share a love for the belt and grenades. Tristan doesn’t seem to focus on any one gadget, simply going through the paces and memorising their function. Lance had once caught him trying to partially dismantle the wristwatch to see how it ticked. He quickly reassembled it when an instructor came by and didn’t touch it again.

They practice with the grappling gun, learning to take trajectory and windspeed into account, something Tristan is most used to from his sniper training. It takes Lance three tries to hit the brick wall, the snickering of his friends not helping.

“Thought it was all in the maths, Lance?”

“Yeah yeah, have your fun.” Grumbles Lance, winching the cable back up. He pushes the head back into the barrel with a click.

Straightening and holding it like a normal handgun, he aims a meter above the target before squeezing the trigger. With a huff of compressed air the head sails up then slams into the wall, the hooks detach and sink into the bricks. The gun automatically winds the cable back in to pull the line taut. His friends give a half-hearted cheer and Lance bows.

* * *

The glasses were somewhat nausea inducing, the drone capable of making complex aerial manoeuvres with a flick of one’s pupils. One of the candidates vomited and Lance had a headache two hours into the course.

The belt was both the shortest and easiest unit, more focus on proper activation and storage than actual fighting technique, which was covered during their combat certificate. Jesse manages to activate it as she removes it from her jumpsuit, tearing the belt loops clean off.

Lance can’t stop noticing looks he’s been getting from other candidates, Jason especially. He doesn’t know what he’s done to them; he hasn’t been getting it easy, he works hard and is good enough he doesn’t need correction. How difficult is that to understand?

* * *

He stares at the photo again and wonders if Gila knew if mom. He should ask her.

Gila stamps the certificate book and hands it back to him. Lance leaves without saying a word.

* * *

“Hey, dad?”

“Yes?”

“Who was mom’s partner? I mean, what was their name?”

“He was a private man, Lance, I don’t-“

“Please, dad, I barely know anything about mom and her life. I know you don’t like talking about it, but don’t I deserve to know?”

There’s a pause, Lance can hear his dad’s heavy sigh.

“Marsellus Coda. He was called Marsellus Coda. We’d go out for drinks every Friday, at the old bar on fifth. He… he was a good man. I wouldn’t have felt safe is anyone else worked with Renée.”

Lance remembers the name from the graduation photo. It belonged to a reedy looking man with a sharp grin and sharper eyes. The next time Lance is in Gila’s office; he’s dedicating the man’s face to memory.

Moira hadn’t been available to talk, they were mid mission. David, tried as he sounded, was free and full of gossip.

“And there’s this feud between the Tech Lab and Dry Cleaners because they both make gadgets for the field agents, but the Dry Cleaners’ focus is on the suit itself while the techies make weapons and such. They’re always fighting over who gets to develop what, and who deserves more funding. It’s kinda funny because if a techie and cleaner are waiting in line at the same time, you can feel the tension.”

In the barracks, Lance sees Tristan tinkering with a watch. He’d gotten permission from Gila herself to borrow one on the ground he returns it by the end of the week in working condition. Jesse watches him over his shoulder.

“So, any reason you’re dismantling a forty-thousand-dollar watch?”

“I like taking things apart to see how they work.” Tristan grunts, not looking up from his work. “Once I’ve done that, the blueprints’re in my head for it. Maybe there’s something that can be improved on mechanically: the darts are too slow for my liking.”

Jesse watches with mild interest, occasionally pointing out flaws or improvements that could be made. Lance loses interest after five minutes and returns to his book; it’s nearly finished.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we have now established who's gonna be the dude driving and who'll be the dude shooting a gun out the window during a car chase lmao  
> it was #fun brainstorming gadgets, i spent a fair bit of time peering at screenshots of lance's suit because when ears shoots him with the emp that deactivates his gadgets, all his gadgets light up, and i guessed what they were by their silhouettes, then took inspiration from kingsmen and bond movies for what they should do.  
> tristan Wishes he could compete with jesse's sheer motorcycling ability, honestly


	15. Phase III - (part vii)

Holy shit dudes, look at Gila drawn by [DankSide_oftheMoon](https://www.archiveofourown.org/users/DankSide_ofTheMoon/pseuds/DankSide_ofTheMoon)

Please go check out [her fic](https://www.archiveofourown.org/works/24718303) it's a very good piece of writing written by a very cool person

And another Gila, both present day and as a wee baby faced recruit, by [XxStar-BluesxX](http://xxstar-bluesxx.tumblr.com), ily omg

* * *

**Certificate V – Airborne Skills**

It’s not that Lance is afraid of heights, it’s more the plummeting to your death and being crushed against the unforgiving earth, like a squishy container of Jell-o, that makes him weary of being high up.

Being strapped to an instructor’s chest, fifteen-thousand-feet in the air may instil some fear in Lance, but he feels it’s a justified one. He looks out the small porthole window to the brown and yellow expanse beneath them. The parachute used to hold him, and the instructor’s, combined body weight seems all the more flimsy.

The side door is pushed and the first instructor-candidate tandem jump clamber out to the side of the plane. Then, they simply let go, allowing gravity to drag them back to the ground. Lance hears the candidate’s whooping from the inside of the plane. The groups begin departing and soon it’s Lance’s turn. He regrets looking down at the ground, just before they crawl out the opening.

“Uh… is this safe?”

“Having second thoughts, candidate?”

“No, no. Just…” He looks down _again_. He should really stop doing that. “Never mind, let’s just do this.” The instructor chuckles, then Lance feels them push off.

Then he feels the _plummet_. It’s like a rollercoaster that only goes down. The wind screams past Lance’s ears and his skin ripples from the wind. His limbs spread out, belly facing the earth. A yell rips out of him, half fear and half exhilaration. The instructor slides from side to side, then makes a careful spin before righting them. The air feels like a tangible solid between Lance’s outstretched fingers. He laughs.

All too soon the instructor pulls a toggle and the main canopy is deployed. They soar down to the drop zone, the altimeter on Lance’s wrist steadily counting down. He sticks out his legs and meets the ground with relief. His heart races in his chest and Lance realises he’s panting.

“Holy shit.” He says. The instructor chuckles, detaching the clasps that held them together.

When Lance reconvenes with his friends for their second jump, Tristan is vibrating, a wide grin lighting up his face.

“Can’t wait to do these solo.” He says.

“Oh great, you’re an adrenaline junkie.” Remarks Rachel, but her eyes are glittering with the thrill of the previous jump.

The airborne skills section is meant to make a trainee more comfortable in their air, training them how to skydive and operate a wingsuit. For the first week, the candidates will have made over fifty jumps, learning how their body falls as well as the safety procedures for low speed and high speed malfunction.

The tandem jumps evolve into jumping with an instructor as a partner. They guide Lance through pulling the main and emergency canopy, as well has the bright red toggle used to cut the main canopy from the gear during a malfunction.

Being mid-air is fine, it’s the departure from the plane that always gets Lance. He sees the clouds float by underneath him, he sees the ground below and his heart jumps into his throat. He forces his hands to unclasp from the rail of the plane as the instructors push off.

The final four parachute jumps were done with another candidate as the partner. Lance, frustrated at his fear that had yet to waver, volunteers to be Tristan’s partner, who wants to be the first to jump out. As they sit on the hard benches, the sound of the plane’s engines buffeting Lance’s skull, he feels an elbow nudge him.

“Afraid of heights?” Asks Tristan

“No, more the falling aspect.” Lance exhales sharply to try and banish the panic. Tristan nods in understanding.

“Well, if both canopies fail, I’ll be there to catch you. These are durable parachutes, they’ll hold us.” Lance doesn’t look comforted. “How about when we jump out, we go head first – “

  
“Excuse me?”

“It’ll be fun, Lance. There’s this rush of speed, all you can do is breathe through your nose and hear the distance tick down. If we keep our legs locked, it’ll keep us steady.” Lance jigs his leg, then nods.

“Sure. Whatever, man.” Tristan elbows him again and they wait for the plane to level out.

All too soon the door is pushed open and the instructor gives them the all clear. Keeping his breathing steady, Lance makes his way to the opening. Tristan flicks his helmet.

“Don’t look down, dickhead!” He yells over the sound of the jets. Then, Tristan holds out his fist. “For good luck!” They fist bump and crawl out of the plane. Strangely enough, Lance feels safer.

Lance stares determinedly at the white panelling, focusing on inching his way across the bar. They lock legs, Tristan signals at Lance to look at him. Then, Tristan lets them fall. Lance’s breathing picks up.

They’re going headfirst and it’s _too fast_. They're human shaped bullets, aiming for the grave. Is this how Icarus felt?

Then, Lance hears Tristan laughing, like how he did in the swamp. His arms are spread out to his sides like he relishes in the rush of the air. They start to spin, Lance held firmly in place by his friend. The fear cracks, and pure enjoyment bursts from its remains. Like a falcon going into a dive, Lance closes his eyes and leans into the fall.

It doesn’t feel like falling in that moment. It feels like _rising_.

They detach to deploy their parachutes safely, they meet the ground and run at each other, arms akimbo and yelling about how awesome that was, how freeing it felt.

The remaining dives are not preluded by the anxiety of failure, instead, Lance and Tristan bump fists and dive out the plane together. They make it a competition: who can spin the most consecutive times, who can dive faster, who can do the coolest trick. Lance finds the air a comfortable thrill now.

On their last dive, Gila had supervised the candidates. She notices their camaraderie, filing it away in her mind along with the other examples.

* * *

They’re in the classroom again, being show diagrams of different wingsuit shapes and their effect on aerodynamics.

“The wingsuit attached to a field agent’s suit is made from ripstop nylon with hard ribs inside the wing airfoils. Some blokes in Colorado helped develop this iteration. Our techies have had their way with it, too. The ribs are lighter, keeping the wings rigid in flight without dragging the agent down, and instead of wearing a separate parachute, the wing airfoils expand to halt the descent. These aren’t made for HALO altitudes, more a last-ditch attempt to survive a bad fall.”

Instead of jumping from a moving plane, the candidates would be transported by helicopter. For the first handful of jumps, the candidates wear parachutes, just in case. Zipping the wings up along his arms, Lance can’t help but feel a rush of apprehension. He closes his eyes and remembers the feeling of rising. It banishes lingering fears.

The wingsuit dives felt more intense than free-fall skydiving. As Lance dropped from the helicopter at the instructor’s signal, the strange sensation of the wingsuit flapping and tugging at his limbs ensconced him. It was like being tied to a kite. Steeling himself, Lance grips the wings and tenses his arms and legs. The membranes catch the draft and his descent immediately slows. After a handful of seconds spent drifting, Lance begins sliding from side to side by moving his arms.

Then, he dives. Pressing his arms close to his sides, but not fully in, he faces the earth and swears he sees his flying squirrel silhouette against the Sonora Desert. He smiles, and embraces the thrill.

* * *

He almost asks Gila, the next time they’re in her office. Almost.

Marselleus had a broad nose and a single, gold earring in his left lobe. Lance wonders if it was practical. He wonders if him and his mom were friends.

Lance regales his dad with his skydiving experiences, excitedly recalling the time he managed to throw himself into a triple-backflip. He leaves out how sick he felt afterwards, though. As he hangs up his last call of the day, he realises how much time has passed; Moira’s finished her apprenticeship and has already coordinated three missions already. They’re almost finished Phase III.

* * *

It’s late. It always is when the director calls, not that Gila minds: her sleep pattern’s always been shit. The glass and metal in her office reflects the dull cyan from the HTUV video feed.

“Joyless.”

“Eloise.”

Names neither of them appreciates.

“Turns out you’re not too shit at predicting things after all.” Gila crosses her arms.

“I already know that. Why’d you bring it up?” Joy doesn’t look very impressed, face set in a dead-eyed stare. It would send shivers down lesser people, not Gila.

“McFord and Sterling, your pet project. They’re thriving.”

“Oh?” Her voice takes on a more interested tone.

“They’ve no doubt noticed they’ve been consistently paired together throughout the phase, but it’s done them well. They’re much more cohesive and amiable compared to what I’ve read from Steel Jaw and Blue Marsh.”

“Good. I’ll assume you’ve had a part in this development.” Joy raises an eyebrow.

“Camp Exspes has a way of bringing out the best in field agents, and the worst in everyone else.” Says Gila, with a proud smirk.

They discuss other candidates, including the increased aggression of one Jason Wallace. For now, Gila was to keep an eye on him and send a notice out to the Phase IV instructors in Boston.

* * *

**Certificate VI – HTUV Piloting Proficiency**

The last certificate was the easiest of the six in spite of its name. In the silo sat two HTUV regulation aircraft, a helicopter and a small propeller engine plane. HTUV regulation in that they had advanced autopilot, take-off and landing protocols, and the agents only needed to be shown how to start the things up.

“The amount of time and resources it would take for HTUV to give all of you comprehensive knowledges on actual piloting, the language used, the physics and rules involved? It’s obscene. Now quit whinging and memorise the buttons.”

Lance feels a twinge of disappointment staring at the grossly simplified control boards. The cockpits had a tiller in case autopilot disengaged. The necessary gauges to measure air pressure, height, direction, and windspeeds were neatly contained within a touchscreen.

The rest of their time was spent operating the vehicles. Because there were only two aircrafts, and over thirty candidates, as well as limited fuel, multiple flights were made each day, and most candidates had to wait their turn. Tristan calls dibs on the helicopter. 

Lance wishes his first experience piloting a plane had actually involved piloting a plane. Instead, he taps the screen, flips a small green switch, and selects a take off option. The plane does the rest, Lance only needing to switch the mode to cruising when they reached the appropriate altitude. He sulks his way to dinner after landing the plane. Or letting the plane land itself. Whatever.

“Did you really think we were actually going to learn how to fly planes, dude?” asks Jesse with a raised eyebrow, “it takes months to get a proper license, and we had two weeks.” Lance grumbles and pierces through the skin of his soup.

The helicopter is more fun due to the fact you had to deploy a line so the static charge built up from the friction between the particles in the air and the helicopter blades was grounded and didn’t electrocute any passengers. Still disappointingly simple.

* * *

It’s his last time in the office. The notebook is thicker now, from use and the ink. It feels heavier than it is, weighted down by a near tangible sense of achievement. Lance stands to leave, but before he goes, before he loses this chance, he finally dredges up the courage to ask Gila, eyes flicking to the photograph above her head.

“You knew my mom, didn’t you?”

There’s silence, and Gila looks up at him with a blank, dangerous glare. Lance doesn’t push his luck, making his way to the door, stomach falling into a pit.

As he leaves, Lance can only just make out a very quiet confession.

_Yeah. I miss her._

* * *

**Performance Board**

On their last week, some candidates resat any failed certificates, while the rest simply waited. All were assigned a half-hour time slot in the classroom. Their interview with the performance board. Lance had forgotten about it, in the flurry of activity and stress.

He was scheduled for Tuesday, in the morning. Tristan was set for Tuesday as well, in the evening. Rachel and Jesse had been scheduled for Wednesday morning and afternoon, respectively. None of them bring up the coincidence, tired and anxious for whatever the grilling held.

Lance arrives to his interview fifteen minutes early. Some chairs have been set up outside the doors. He bounces his leg and waits for time to finally start moving. The door cracks open and Jason slips out. His eyes are red, and he glares at the ground as he walks away from the classroom, barely acknowledging Lance. Lance can’t find it in him to really care; there’s more important things to feel for right now. He stands, and enters that dark room.

All the lights are off in the classroom. The desks are pushed to the back, with one set out in front of three people. Two women and a man sit with carefully folded hands. Pads of paper sit by their elbows. Lamps shoot bright, white light onto the table. In front of the table is another seat. He hears the whisper of air as he inhales through his nose and out his mouth.

_He’s got this._

The woman in the middle looks at Lance, one eye blue and the other grey.

“Siediti, candidato.” She says. Lance blinks in surprise, taking the seat in front of them.

“Non perderemo tempo con chiacchiere. Per la registrazione audio, indicaci il tuo nome e il tuo numero di identificazione.” Lance frowns in concentration, rushing to translate it in his head. _They won’t waste time on…. Chiacchiere… for the recording, state name and ID number._

“Il mil nome è Lance Sterling, candidato numero zero-tre-quattro.” The woman nods, a man to her left writes someone down on his page. The woman to the left speaks up.

“La tua capacità di lavorare in gruppo è migliorata dall’ingresso nel corso di selezione?”

_Has your capacity to work in a group improved since beginning this selection course?_

The performance board has begun. In fucking Italian. Lance braces himself, remembering months of conversation practice, vocabulary memorisation, and grammar skills. He lets out a calming breath. Well then. _Fatti sotto._

Some of the questions are filled with Italian turns of phrases, or words he doesn’t recognise. Lance wracks his brain for understanding, going off of context and the occasional similarity with English.

“In caso di rischio di sospensione, o licenziamento, disobbedireste agli ordini dirette dei vostri superiori se fosse ritenuto inadeguato per la missione?”

 _In case of suspension..._ No: _With risk of suspension or job termination, are you willing to disobey direct orders… from the superior… should they be deemed inappropriate to the mission?_

_Yes. A coordinator may have the information, but they’re not the ones on the ground. They only have the birds eye view of everything and have to trust their field agents to do their jobs._

It’s been fifteen, nerve-wracking minutes. But, as they continue, Lance begins to understand the questions faster, not needing to translate in his head per say, more that he understands the words as they are.

“Possiamo fidarci di voi a non crollare sotto lo stress di una missione, insieme agli aspetti a lungo termine dell’essere un agente speciale?”

 _Can we trust you not to crumble under the pressure of the mission, along with the long time…_ No: _long-term aspects of being a special agent?_

_Of course. I’ve survived this phase, and the tests before it. I have stayed high in the rankings, I have the mental strength to be a spy._

The left speaker asks the last question.

“Perché desideria essere una spia? Che cosa si guadagna da questo stile di vita?”

_Why do you even want to be a spy? What do you get out of this lifestyle?_

“Mia madre era una spia-“ Lance starts, only to be interrupted by the centre speaker.

“Allora?”

_So?_

Maybe it’s the stress of an important interview being carried out in a foreign language, or how apathetically they responded. Lance knows they don’t know his mother, but it still irritates him. His response is passionate, hands clenching in an attempt to stop them from moving in emphasis.

“Così, sono cresciuta con delle stories u di lei, su come è andata faccia a faccia con i draghi del mondo ed è uscita in cima.

 _So, I grew up with stories about her, how she came face-to-face with the dragons of the world and came out on top._ Lance remembers his dad sitting beside him on their couch, holding him close after a nightmare. He told Lance how brave his mom was; how she was once threatened with being flayed alive, by a Brazilian mob boss. Instead of cowering, she laughed in his face and told him to be careful around her mouth, because she _bites_. 

“Sono qui perche’ gli agenti speciali della HTUV camminano lung il bordo del coltello ogni giorno. So che posso farlo anch’io. Sono ostinato, sono tosta, sono intelligente. La mia esibizione dal primo giorn lo ha dimostrato.

 _I’m here because special agents from HTUV walk the knife’s edge every day. I know I can do it, too. I’m stubborn, I’m tough, I’m smart. My performance since day one has proven that. I’m the best of the best._ Lance didn’t say the last part, but it was implied.

“C’è gente cattiva là fuori. Voglio aiutare voglio fermarli. Per quanto tempo: finché la mia mente o il mio corpo non mi falliscono.”

_There are bad people out there. I want to help, I want to stop them. For however long: until my mind or body fails me._

Lance ends his speech, out of breath. The three panel members almost seem impressed. He sits in silence as they quietly write on their notepads and speak amongst each other in a language other than Italian or English. Then, the three straighten up. the middle woman looks at Lance with glittering, mismatched eyes.

“You have performed well, candidate.” She says, in English. “We wish you all the best for Fourth Phase. Please leave.” She gestures behind him, towards the door.

Numbly, tiredly, Lance stumbles out of the room. Then the realisation of her words finally sinks in.

_He passed! He’s moving on._

_He’s one step closer to becoming an agent._

Lance chuckles to himself.

“Was there ever any doubt?” He whispers, to no one.

Face to face with the dragons of the world had been a quote from the fantasy novel he'd been reading. It had stuck with him, the same way the female protagonist did. She's what he thinks his mom would be like; staring down certain doom and doing nothing more than tightening her grip on the sword.

His first thought is to call his dad, to let him know he made it. But it had to wait until all interviews were conducted. Instead, he reconvenes with his friends on Thursday morning.

“So… considering we’re all here, I take it the interviews went well.” He states. The other three groan.

“Of course they’d do it in our foreign languages.” Says Tristan, his voice muffled as he rests his head in the crook of his arms.

“I got the hang of it after a couple questions, but when the interviewer started talking Spanish, my mind went blank.” Jesse shivers at the memory. “God I really hope we don’t have to do that again.”

“You never know,” starts Rachel, who had otherwise been silent. “They might decide to have whole days where no one speaks English.”

Tristan blows a breath out his mouth.

“We’re really moving on to Phase Four, huh?”

“Shit. Yeah.” Jesse sounds surprised. “We’ve almost made it.”

They sit there while, letting that realisation sink in.

* * *

“That’s excellent, Lance!”

The call goes as it normally does, father congratulating son and them exchanging experiences from the phase. But Warren sounds croaky. Lance doesn’t think to ask about it until he erupts into a harsh coughing fit.

“Dad, what’s wrong?”

“I’m alright Lance, please don’t worry.” He sounds like he’s forcing his lungs to stay in place.

“Dad-“

“Son, leave it be.” Warren is cut off by another coughing fit. He hangs up, leaving Lance frowning at the wall.

“Is your dad alright there, Lance?” Asks Jesse, who overheard the last part of his call.

Lance looks up at Jesse with an openly afraid expression.

“I don’t know.”

* * *

He gets maybe an hour of sleep that night, heart racing in his chest like he’s run a marathon. What’s his dad hiding? He falls into a nightmare that feels more like a memory: He’s small and in the HTUV building. In front of him is an enormous slab of stars that stretches into the sky. It sits there, looming over him and for some reason, the sight of it makes him cry. In the morning, Rachel tells him he was sleep talking.

On their last day, the candidates pack up their spare uniforms and strip their sheets. Lance trades Xiao’s historical romance novel to Jesse for her mystery-thriller. There’s a celebratory and excited air clinging to the remaining thirty-five candidates but Lance can’t find it in him to feel the same. He bites into a mealy apple and doesn’t taste it.

There’s no grand speeches from Gila as they gather outside. Only quiet chatter and the calm gaze of aviator donning instructors. The bus slowly rolls into view, a white and black that’s become familiar to Lance over the months. The baggage compartments hiss open.

Before Lance knows what’s happening, Jason is in his face, yelling about how _of course you made it, everything’s been made easy for you. I bet those instructors just fucking handed you that pass._ Then, a strong arm takes up Lance’s vision. A calloused palm slams into Jason’s sternum, forcing him back and away from Lance. Tristan moves in front of Lance, shielding him with his body.

“You keep talking shit like that and I’m breaking your fucking teeth in.” He snarls, broad shoulders tense and ready for a fight.

Jesse slots in to the right of Tristan, ready to back him up, and Rachel stands beside Lance, keeping an eye on the rear. Jason pales and starts backing away. Tristan takes a step forward and Jason almost trips getting away.

Tristan turns to Lance, fierce expression softening into one of concern. “Are you okay? He didn’t hurt you or nothing?” Lance shakes his head.

“No… no I’m alright.” His hands are shaking from the adrenaline and he wonders why he didn’t just punch Jason in his stupid fucking face. He calms when he feels Rachel’s light touch on his elbow, grounding him. Jesse watches with crossed arms. Tristan keeps his back to Lance.

“I’ll sit with you on the bus, Lance.” He says softly. Lance nods, even though Tristan can’t see.

The bus lurches away. Away from Gila, away from endless desert, from the sun and the yelling. Fourteen weeks had passed there, in a staggering blur of strain and humiliation. Lance closes his eyes and pulls his feet up onto the seat.

He’s tired, but he’s almost done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fatti sotto - Bring it on
> 
> the homies are skydiving as friends now!!!!! they've grown so much :,)  
> tristan is the eldest of three boys, so he's got All the elder brother instincts  
> sorry if you expected lance to get his pilot's license, just wasn't meant to be lmao  
> is lance projecting on a fantasy character because he has very little idea of who his mother was/what she was like because his dad never went to therapy and has to live through a whole bunch of emotional constipation and repression because of it? maybe.  
> his dad isn't doing too great, but hey, it's probs pneumonia  
> when jason messes with lance, it's On SIGHT
> 
> and that concludes phase iii, they're almost finished their training, now they move on to boston, when phase iv is held, hopefully it's more pleasant than the place they were just at


	16. Phase IV - (part i)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Massachusetts  
> August

Tristan nudges Lance awake, four hours after they left Camp Exspes. His eyes are gritty and there’s a crick in his neck from the position he slept in. Looking out the window as he stretches, Lance catches sight of an airstrip, past a wire fence.

“Where are we?” He asks, rolling his shoulders.

“Some private airport in Nevada.” Answers Tristan, standing to leave the bus and muffling a yawn.

Outside, the air smells vaguely of fuel and dust. The wind whips around Lance’s face and he squints to keep sand out of his eyes. He stretches again, grabbing his bag from the storage compartment and joining his friends by a small building. It has the same blocky exterior as the ones from Camp Exspes, Lance shudders at the reminder.

It’s an overcast day, the cloud cover is thin enough for the sky to be a blinding white that hurts to look at. _Whippet Transportations_ is painted above the entrance in black, blocky lettering. The inside is just like any other airport Lance has been to; pale laminate flooring, rows of worn seats with navy padding, and a check-in desk made from shiny, yellow wood. A man reads a hunting magazine at the desk with an air of boredom, chin propped up on his palm.

A couple candidates make a beeline to the bathrooms, some buy snacks from nearby vending machines with their IDs. A rock song Lance faintly recognises plays over the speakers, doing little to fill the strange emptiness in the room. Lance realises there’s no flight information board, and there’s only one gate. He looks around with bleary eyes.

“So, are we just gonna hang out here until something happens?”

“The receptionist will let us know when it’s time to line up. Shouldn’t be more than twenty minutes’ waiting.” Replies Jesse, returning from a vending machine with a Bounty in hand. Lance frowns.

“Did I miss that memo?”

“You were asleep when the driver told us.” Says Rachel. She leaves with Jesse to claim seats for them, bag in hand. Lance turns to Tristan.

“Why didn’t you wake me up?”

Tristan shrugs, an odd expression on his face.

“You looked like you needed it.”

“Oh… Thanks.” Lance had been feeling that string of sleepless nights, but wasn’t aware it showed. Tristan nods and goes to join the girls at their seats, propping his boots up on the row across from his.

Lance splashes his face with the rusty water in the men’s bathroom. He sighs heavily, trying to banish the jittery feeling in his hands and chest. He doesn’t remember the dream during the coach ride, but it left him feeling like he’d forgotten something important.

The chairs are somehow less comfortable than the coach’s, the navy pleather is cracked, and Lance can’t find a sitting position that doesn’t make his back ache. Rachel sits across from Lance, reading _Jurassic Park_. Her face is set in a tired but focused stare, dark brown eyes flicking across the pages. To Lance’s left sits Tristan, his legs are propped up on the row of chairs Rachel sits on. Jesse mirrors his position, feet resting by Tristan’s hip. 

“Hmm. Once in like, eighth grade, I cooked an egg on the hood of the principal’s car.” Says Jesse, staring up at the ceiling. There’s an air of boredom blanketing the room.

Tristan grunts.

“There was one summer, it got so hot you couldn’t stand in one spot for too long, or your thongs would melt onto the sidewalk.”

Jesse jerks her head down to peer at Tristan.

“ _Thong_?”

Tristan frowns at her.

“Thongs, y’know, sandals?”

Jesse makes a face.

“You call flip flops, _thongs_ in Australia?”

“Wh-what else would we call them?”

“Literally anything but that.”

Tristan rolls his eyes in exasperation, Rachel chuckles quietly. Lance dozes off to the sound of Jesse and Tristan comparing American and Australian vernacular.

* * *

Lance rouses from his snooze to the sound of a propeller engine. Its droning buzz increases in volume as a small, white plane lands on the airstrip outside. The engines are cut off and left to spin away their momentum. Underneath the top of the receptionist’s desk, his computer pings.

“Alright folks, line up, single file.” He calls, pushing away his magazine and straightening in his chair. With great effort, the four of them rise and stumble over to the quickly forming line.

The receptionist scans Lance’s ID and motions for him to walk out the now-opened doors. Lance shields his face to the midday sun. The white panelling shines in the light as attendants quickly clean and refuel the plane.

Lance settles beside Rachel, Tristan and Jesse taking the row beside them to continue their America v. Australia comparison. Over the speakers, the pilot informs them they’ll be landing in Missouri to refuel before continuing on to Massachusetts, where they’ll land at the Boston Logan International Airport.

Lance’s ears pop as the propellers roar to life and the plane begins to move. His body presses into the teal coloured seat and he watches the Nevadan scrubland race past them. He stares at the ground as they ascend, roads becoming a grey network of capillaries on the face of a yellow landscape.

The last time he had flown, it was with his dad to visit his grandparents in Florida, last Christmas. His father’s parents: Lance has never met his maternal grandparents. Once, Lance asked his dad when they’d be able to visit them. Warren’s face had twisted into a look of disdain, though young Lance didn’t know what the emotion was at the time.

His dad told him that his mom hadn’t spoken to them in a very long time, that they’d had a bad fight and were bad people to her, so they weren’t worth knowing. Lance thinks back on Tristan’s phone call with his mom; how venomous her voice was, how resigned Tristan became.

He sighs as the ground is obscured by a thick blanket of cloud.

* * *

They land in Missouri, some hours later. The candidates stay on the plane as HTUV employees scurry around it, running routine diagnostics and refuelling with practiced efficiency. Despite the pummelling downpour, the workers seem content. Water streams off their matching white _Whippet Transportations_ caps. Dark grey fog enshrouds the small airport, orange beams of lights shoot through from passing cars, Lance listens to the rain patter off the metal roof.

“Okay,” Starts Jesse, wearing an expression of intense focus. “So, a bluey can either be a dog, a jellyfish, or a jacket.”

“Can also be a redhead.”

She squints at Tristan.

“What?”  
  


“It’s ironic.” He says, shrugging.

“Okay, so –“

“Or a pack, or a traffic ticket.”

Jesse pauses, hands up and splayed in thought.

“And it’s a specific type of dog, too.” Tristan adds.

“... Let’s start at the beginning –“

“As much as I appreciate a good bout of cultural exchange,” interrupts Rachel, rubbing her temple. “You two have been doing this for well over three hours and it’s _driving me insane_.” She hisses the last part from between her teeth; Jesse and Tristan recoil back from her in a synchronised motion. Lance trembles trying to stop his laughter from erupting out.

* * *

They fly out of Missouri as quickly as they’d landed. Lance watches the light cast from moving cars below, now miniscule. He wonders what lives they lead, wonders if they see the plane up above and think the same thing about him. Beside him, Rachel nods off, snoring softly out her mouth. Tristan and Jesse, warily eyeing Rachel’s sleeping form, quietly continue their conversation.

Lance regrets staying awake for the entire flight. When they land on a smaller strip in the Boston Logan International Airport, his eyes are burning, and his head is buzzing with an alertness that only comes after resisting sleep. It’s been eight hours of travel, and with the time zone difference, it’s roughly 4am in Boston. The sun is already lightening the sky with the promise of dawn, and small, white squares of light dot the cityscape. He rubs his face and winces at how oily it’s become.

The small plane taxis across the airport, dwarfed by double decker jets with engines taller than Lance. Across the Charles River, Lance sees the Bunker Hill monument.

As the candidates stumble their way off the plane, they’re greeted by a man in a blue suit and dark grey overcoat. His oxfords glisten in the orange lights of the airport. He’s familiar in a way Lance can’t place.

“Good morning, recruits.” He says, looking over the candidates with hooded eyes and a bemused expression at their varying levels of disorientation. “I am Instructor Ming, and I’m here to escort you to The Stash.” He turns on his heel in a fluid motion, walking into the airport without waiting for the trainees. With a jolt, they follow.

The group pushes through the airport, still busy even at this hour. Lance sees lines already beginning to form at the check in desks. Somewhere in the building, a baby cries, a businessman makes a call, a family argues, an old woman gossips with her husband, and children sprint from one wall to the other, giggling and racing. Their runners slapping on the linoleum floor.

Two silver minivans are parked outside the airport, Ming whistles to grab the attention of the drivers. The candidates’ bags are quickly stored in the back and they take their seats in the soft, grey interior. Lance closes his eyes for just a second, then he’s jolted awake by Jesse prodding at his ribs, saying _they’re here, get out_.

In front of the thirty-five candidates stands a non-descript apartment block. It’s white and grey, small bridges connect the floors and a brick stairwell leads into inky darkness. Ming strides forward, he’s either in a hurry or just a fast walker. His mellow voice bounces off the walls of the building.

“I’ll just be showing you to your rooms, for now. We’ve designated them by candidate number, so don’t go choosing any random dorm. There’ll be a proper tour of The Stash, and introduction to Phase Four at noon.”

They’re led up metal stairways that clang out with each footstep. The air smells stale here, like it receives little circulation. Ming stops at an emergency exit, holding his pocket watch to the handle of the door before pushing it open. Warmth flows into the stairwell and Ming gestures for the candidates to walk in.

The dormitory area smells like detergent and old furniture. Bare brick walls and wooden floors give the impression of college accommodation instead of an apartment building. Ming gestures to the hallways with the hand not holding the door open, telling them their rooms are there. When all candidates are out of the stairwell, he leaves them with a quiet goodnight and the soft click of the door as it locks. The door vanishes, blending in with the rest of the wall.

The Trainees stand in one place, at first unsure of what to do next, so used to being told what to do at every moment from Phase III. Then, someone yawns, breaking the tense atmosphere. There’s a rush of sighing and huffed laughter. People are weary from the travel, but the prospect of a new phase fills them with nervous anticipation. Lance waves to his friends, immediately searching for his room.

Room 34 is in the hallway down from where they emerged. Upon trying the door handle, Lance discovers with slight panic that it’s locked. It takes an embarrassing amount of time for him to notice the card reader underneath the handle, and to figure out he needs to swipe his ID to enter.

The room is roughly the size as the one from Blue Marsh, only this one has a desk and chair instead of a second twin bed. Lance pushes the door closed behind him, dropping his bag to the floor. He kicks off his shoes and collapses on the bed, breathing in the smell of lemongrass and feeling the softness of the sheets that only come from years of use.

He falls asleep as Boston wakes up around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a short and sweet introduction to the penultimate phase of lance's training, he's not doing too hot with the worry for his dad, but he'll be alright
> 
> ming Has been introduced before, wayyyy back in the earlier chapters, maybe you remember him


	17. Phase IV - (part ii)

Mug in hand, Tristan raps on Lance’s door with his knuckles. He hears a groan from within.

“Get up, you lazy bugger, it’s eleven am.” There’s a grunt, and the sound of rustling fabric. Tristan wanders back to the common area, having done his job. He sips the coffee and closes his eyes to the smell and taste. The kitchenette here has a French press and after months of instant, and whatever was in the Camp Exspes thermoses, he’s learned to appreciate a good cup of coffee.

On the old leather couch Jesse balances a plate of scrambled eggs on her stomach, legs propped up on the low table in front of her. Rachel cradles a cup of tea in one hand as she reads the Jurassic Park book he’d lent her. Tristan doesn’t mind Michael Crichton, but he’s more an Asimov fan.

“Has Sleeping Beauty arisen yet?” Asks Jesse, craning her neck to look up at Tristan.

“He’s getting there.” He replies, taking a seat on the other side of Jesse. Tristan sips at his drink, watching the other candidates mill about. The early risers had thoroughly rifled through the kitchen, finding several cartons of eggs, juice, and milk, tins of canned beans, loaves of bread, assorted fruits, and some rashers of bacon. The smell of breakfast cooking had drawn other trainees from their slumber and into the large common area.

Tristan notes Jason’s absence and hope it stays like that. He nods to Xiao as he walks out his room and into the kitchen, a bond having grown between them during their specialised sniper training.

“If you’re frying up breakfast there, Xiao,” he starts, “would you mind putting two pieces of bacon on for me?”

“Sure, if you make me breakfast tomorrow.”

Xiao nods when Tristan gives him a thumbs up in agreement. The sound of sizzling fat soon joins in the general din of chatter and clattering utensils. Rachel’s eyes flick up from her book to the clock on the wall.

“Lance better hurry up if he wants to eat before the tour.” She remarks, looking back to the hallway where room 34 lies.

“Hopefully it’s just a tour, and we don’t have to do any more four-mile runs.” Says Tristan, the girls shudder in response.

* * *

Lance blearily stumbles out of the hallway to the smell of cooking and a faint cheer from the centre of the room.

“And on the third day, he rose again!” Recites Jesse, raising one of her hands like a preacher. Lance rolls his eyes and makes his way to the fridge.

Much to his friends’ objections, Lance wiggles his way between Tristan and Jesse on the couch. He meets their sneers with a cheeky grin and takes a large bite of his apple. Xiao hands Tristan a small plate of bacon, Tristan shoots him a smile.

At 12:05, Instructor Ming quietly steps into the room, those noticing him falling into a hush. Soon, all candidates fall quiet, out of respect, out of fear. Ming wears the same blue suit, sans the grey overcoat. His shiny black hair is parted at the side and his goatee is freshly trimmed. The satin silk of his lapels shine in the afternoon sun that streams in between the half-closed blinds.

“Good morning, recruits. If everyone could come with me, I’ll be taking you to where Chief Instructor McCune will carry out the tour.” He gestures back to the emergency exit doorway with a thumb, “there’s only one way out of the dorms, all the other doors are either storage closets or fake. Don’t trip going down the stairwell, please.”

They’re led down the stars again, only this time they go a level below ground. Ming leads them through a narrow, brick passageway. Orange lights cast strange shadows on the concrete floor, Lance’s breaths bounce off the walls and he hears a faint rushing sound overhead.

When they emerge on the other side, Lance realises they’d crossed a road. In front of them stands a building with similar architecture to their dorm building. It’s U-shaped, with large glass doors denoting the entrance. In front of the doors, a woman stands waiting. Hazel eyes, bracketed by crow’s feet, watch them near. Several other people in suits stand behind her.

Ming motions for the candidates to stop in front of her. He passes the woman, patting her on the shoulder. She nods in acknowledgement and takes a step towards them. Ming falls in line with the other instructors behind her.

“Good afternoon, cadre.” She starts, speaking in a thick Irish accent. If Moira were there, she would have recognised it as a Cork accent. “I am Head Instructor McCune.

“I want to extend a congratulations to you lot; our selection course is not easy, and it was no mean feat to get this far.

“But your struggles are not yet over. Phase Four, while not as physically demanding as its predecessors, is nothing to scoff at.”

She beckons them to follow her inside, turning sharply on her heel. Lance swivels his head around the building, admiring its high ceilings and black metal sculptures.

“In these walls you will be refined. The brutes in Phase Three taught you how to throw a punch, but can you make a proper martini? Can you follow a target without being detected? Can you navigate a formal dinner party? All these things, and more, we will teach you.”

McCune leads them into a meeting room, a projector is already running. Taking a seat in the front, Lance fixes his gaze to the slide images and remembers the first day of Phase I. McCune outlines the next thirteen weeks; two six-week segments with a seven-day underwater demolitions course in between them.

The first segment will focus on the finer parts of spy work: deportment, lockpicking, recognising different crests, badges, symbols, and uniforms, bartending, pickpocketing. All neatly ended by the Bar Exam. Lance raises an eyebrow at the eclectic combination of topics.

The second is centred on fieldwork in urban environments; fighting, pursuit of a target, driving, learning how to move in HTUV suits, interrogation resistance. The last subject leaves a pit of worry in his chest. It’s completed with a live fire scenario called the Urban Environment Adaptation Test.

The major difference between Phase IV and the rest was the free slots; when no training was being held, candidates were free to leave the Stash and do whatever they so wished. Clubbing, shopping, travelling; as long as they arrived to training on time and kept in shape, it was no business of McCune’s what they did. There’s a rush of excited whispering following that statement, Lance immediately begins planning his week as he reads over the schedule handed out to them at the beginning of the presentation.

McCune describes the underwater demolitions section of the course with a laser pointer and map of Boston and its surrounding area.

“You’ll be taken by Agent Frog, who you hopefully remember from Phase One. She’ll refamiliarize you all with the Draeger rebreather apparatus, then teach you the precise strategy of using the explosives HTUV provides. We used to run this course northwards of Nahant, but following Boston Harbour’s clean up, we’ve moved the course closer to home.”

McCune goes over the map and history of The Stash: Built in the 1800s, it was assigned to the HTUV in 1954. Over the course of the Cold War it went through extensive renovations, serving as a safe house for HTUV field agents. It was built to be difficult to navigate with false doors, circular paths, hidden tunnels, and boltholes. In ’84, when Blue Marsh Compound had completed construction, The Stash was assigned as the location for Phase IV to be carried out.

It’s comprised of three sites; Alpha holds the dorms, clinic, communal showers, laundromat, and call-room. The building which they were in, Beta, houses the gym, classrooms, library, and computer suite. Site Omega was out in Salem, and to be revealed to them in due time.

“The Stash still an active safehouse, and though no agent should have access to the dorms, don’t be too alarmed if you see anyone skulking about. Mind your business, and don’t go near them.”

The clinic sits across from their dorms, connected by the metal walkway Lance had seen beforehand. McCune doesn’t mention the room beside the clinic, connected by a wide door. It resembles the clinic’s setup only for a few key differences: instead of beds, there are large metal slabs, there is less medical apparatus, and deep, stainless steel lockers line the walls. 

McCune claps her hands together, rubbing her palms and grinning.

“Enough of that now, let’s get youse fitted for your suits.”

Lance and Tristan share matching grins, and the room fills with an excited chatter that stays with the candidates as they follow McCune to another part of The Stash.

* * *

In a large, regal looking room, the candidates sit and stand around McCune as she gestures to the full body mannequin beside her, wearing the same suit she and the other instructors at The Stash have on.

The blue jacket is double breasted and made from, what McCune describes to be, _a lovely blend of wool and ultra-high-molecular-weight polyethylene_. The UHMWP, or Cuben Fibre, is softer and forty percent stronger than Kevlar. It’s also more resistant to ultraviolet-light degradation and won’t break down when exposed to bleach like Kevlar does.

“The issue with these Cuben Fibres is their poor heat resistance; they won’t protect an agent as well as Kevlar could in the event of a fire. It’s been a difficult balancing act for the Dry Cleaners back at HQ on what to shield an agent from without the need for ceramic plates or creating an abnormal silhouette.”

The jacket’s four buttons are covered in black satin silk to match the lapels. McCune runs her pinkie finger along the edge of a lapel.

“Up until the eighties, these used to be shawl collars, maintaining a traditional look. Unfortunately, that was changed after the overhaul, and replaced with the more modern notched lapel.”

There is no waistcoat to be worn with a double-breasted jacket, as the jacket is meant to be worn closed at all times. It takes on a more bulky appearance from the reinforcements of the Cuben Fibres and for the space to conceal weapons.

“We intend our agents to resemble that of a martini or wine glass silhouette. The uniform hides the important parts of you, like how a cat sheathes its claws. Its refined appearance is meant to leave the impression that you’re better than everyone in the room, and so you should be.”

The poplin dress shirt is a sharp white colour, with a turn down collar and small eyelets for studs. The fabric of the shirt is surprisingly thick, meant to hide the shadow of a bulletproof vest underneath, should the occasion call for it.

With a mournful expression, McCune informs the candidates that the suspenders had been phased out five years ago, the belt baton taking its place. The belt, being an invention by the Tech Labs and not the Dry Cleaners, had been point of contention between the two departments for months during development, a clash between practicality and formality.

The black trousers are made with the same wool-Cuben Fibre mesh as the jacket, they also have a streak of black satin silk running down the outside seam to match the buttons and lapels. The oxfords, polished and sleek in the overhead lighting, have a hidden blade that pops out of the toe, meant to aid in close quarters combat.

The bow tie has a carbon-fibre skeleton with blades protruding from the edges. Black satin silk covers the skeleton, with slits for the blades to extrude from when activated. The bow tie has a strong electromagnet that acts as a homing device, so it returns to the suit when thrown.

Finally, McCune holds up a pair of cufflinks, one gold and the other silver, both depicting a stylised globe in their circular faces. 

“The gold represents day, and the silver, night. The globe is self explanatory.” She spins them between her thumb and index finger. “The HTUV logo depicts an eagle guarding the world, these cufflinks symbolise the _agent_ guarding the world, during both day and night.”

She stares at them twisting in her hand.

“This is more than a job, recruits. You put this suit on, and you receive Atlas’ burden. The only time civilians are aware of us, is when a mission has gone terribly wrong. We are rarely thanked, and often scorned.” She cradles the cufflinks in her palm, before blinking and shaking out of her musings. Then, McCune beckons the tailors in, taking her leave with the promise another instructor will collect them when they finish.

* * *

The tailor measures Lance’s waist, after the previous three pairs of trousers were too large for him. Typically, to find the right trouser size, six inches is dropped from the chest measurement. Unfortunately, Lance has a broad chest and a small waist, which has led to ten minutes of a tailor glaring at his torso as he tries on yet another pair of too-large pants. They disappear back into the store, grumbling about _whack ass proportions_. Lance pretends not to hear that - his proportions are just fine, thank you.

To his left, Tristan grimaces as his tailor measures the circumference of his neck, muttering about how strangely thick it is for a man his age and build. Jesse hears this and struggles not to poke fun at Tristan, as her tailor is worryingly vicious with the pins.

From the middle of their back to their wrists, the jacket arms are measured. The broadness of their shoulders, size of their chests and necks and waists and hips, the length of their legs and exact size of their feet are all dutifully noted by the tailors. The suits they’re trying on now aren’t the proper HTUV uniforms, which are custom made for each individual. Instead, they’re normal wool with the same size parameters as the real things.

The measurements will be sent to the Dry Cleaners, who construct the pieces of the suits with the electromagnetic guidelines for wingsuits, jumpsuits, and drysuits. Then, they’re shipped back to The Stash where the tailors assemble them and make any necessary modifications after the second fitting. In six weeks’ time, Lance will have his own HTUV suit. He’ll look like a real spy.

For now, he tries on his fourth pair of trousers and watches something die in the tailor’s eyes - they’re still too large.

As their stand-in uniform, until the suits were made and shipped to The Stash, the candidates are given black turtlenecks, with the same Cuben Fibre-wool blend as the suits, black pants, and black combat boots. The HTUV logo is embroidered on to the left shoulder of the turtleneck in blue thread.

Lance pulls his new uniform on in the privacy of his room. The fabric feels elastic and thick, pulling nicely across his chest and biceps. He tightens the leather belt around his waist and admires his reflection in the window.

In the common area, a handful of notices had been pinned onto the corkboard by the kitchen. It informed the candidates to head to the conference room in ten minutes for the first class, and to assign them a _cultural enrichment_ slot. Whatever that meant.

“They’re weirdly obsessed with culture here.” Notes Rachel, reading the board.

“What do they even mean by that?” Asks Tristan, to no one.

“Don’t they do that enrichment thing with zoo animals? Are we going to get a pumpkin stuffed full of dog treats to roll around with?” Jokes Jesse, Lance snorts.

As it turns out, cultural enrichment meant having a _hobby_. Bemused, Lance reads over the list of ‘approved activities’ laid out before him. He could pick up to three of the fifteen. He shares a glance with Jesse, who seems as unimpressed as he does. Lance sighs, shakes his head, and ticks gymnastics.

The rest of the two-hour slot covered an introduction to HTUV’s affiliated businesses, like Whippet Transportations, which safely moves agents and trainees across America without unwanted attention from outsiders.

Red Sun Freights makes trans-Atlantic voyages from America to the eastern hemisphere, subtly ferrying agents and equipment to the African and European continents.

Yang Ming Logistics is also a freighter business, travelling across the Pacific to transport agents to Asia, Oceania and the other side of Africa.

There is a special Antarctic transport service simply named Tern, it only makes three flight a year, and two voyages, from anywhere in the world to the Antarctic. Togiak Arctic Circle Surveyors are independent of HTUV, but still provides them safe passage to the far north.

It’s strange how many inconspicuous companies that act as a front for HTUV, Lance finds. And just to get an agent from one place to another. As Instructor McCune had told them; secrecy is both their greatest weapon and strongest shield, no price is too small to uphold it. Seeing the massive ships and planes, and the distances they travel, calculating how much it would cost to keep just one company going, Lance wonders how much funding is actually sunk into HTUV.

* * *

One of the boons of The Stash is the exchange office; a trainee hands their card to the receptionist at the front desk and asks to withdraw a certain amount of money. The sum is added to their tab, and the trainees can go about their business with the cash.

There isn’t a dedicated cafeteria - the candidates are instead encouraged to find places to eat, or to buy ingredients and make their own food. In a café across the street, with old leather seats and industrial steel tables, Lance and his friends settle down to eat and discuss their timetables. Lance wonders if this is what university life would have been like. But instead of figuring out shared classes; he plans sparring times with his friends in between classes on how to hold yourself at formal events, and how to identify different naval standards.

“So,” Lance starts, chewing on his ham and cheese croissant. “What’d you guys pick for your _cultural enrichment_?”

“Piano.”

“Violin and German.”

“Fine art.”

Jesse turns to Tristan.

"Why’d you pick two things, you nerd?”

Tristan shrugs.

“'Cos I wanted to learn a new language and I played the violin, so it’ll be easy enough to pick up again.”

“Okay, and why German of all things?”

“My mum’s family is from Germany, so I was always interested in learning it.”

“Then why’d you pick Japanese in Phase One?”

Tristan frowns, then shrugs like he doesn’t have an answer for that. Rachel quickly changes the subject by talking to Tristan about their shared musical experience, and if he’d like to duet some pieces with her. Tristan relaxes and they start talking about musical pieces that, to Lance, all sound like ‘Beetzart’s Fourth Overture In Ab Sharp with Major Accompaniment’. But his only experience with classical music involved a two week stint playing the triangle for his high school orchestra, so what does he know?

Jesse raises her eyebrow at Tristan and looks over to Lance, they rib each other about their choices: Lance doesn’t know anything about gymnastics and wants to give it a try, Jesse thinks the image of him in a leotard and on the straddle horse is hilarious. Jesse’s never painted in her life and Lance wants her to paint a portrait of him, he lets her know anything short of hyper-realistic will be met with tears and disdain.

Lance feels a warmth, sitting in that small café. The wafting smell of food and coffee, the sounds of his friends’ voices blanketing him and the soft clink of cutlery. He closes his eyes and tries to commit it to memory.

* * *

The weeks, as they always do, began to pass and blur together. The city of Boston is a busy one, and the inhabitants of The Stash are no different. Mornings are spent in the main conference room, being drilled on _mon_ , heraldry, vexillology, military standards, company logos, and coat of arms. By the end of the third week, Lance can tell the difference between the Indonesian and Monacan flags, and give a detailed history on Japanese clan emblems.

His operator training resumes, with Instructor Ming making a reappearance. Ming holds himself with an easy confidence, commanding the room with no more than his posture and voice. They’re shown how to both be the centre of attention, as well as unnoticeable.

“Considering our lovely techies down in the labs have yet to develop any sort of light-bending camo suits or adaptive-response silicon face masks, it’s up to us to learn how to hide. It may be difficult to fool technology, but it’s very easy to take advantage of another’s inattentiveness.

“Wearing a different article of clothing than what you’d had on a moment before is a surprisingly effective deterrent: while your pursuer is looking for someone in a blue suit, you’ll slip away in a red hoodie. Even swiping a pair of sunglasses or a hat to hide your face can help in avoiding detection.

“Of course, this isn’t fool proof. Someone may either be very watchful or have some way to root out an agent, or your roll of the dice was just unlucky. When they do find you run, fight, slip away. _Do not get caught_.” Ming’s eyes had turned stormy at that part, face set in a determined stare. “Somebody always gets hurt, and you have to ensure that it’s not you.” Lance wonders if he’s ever been caught, or if he’s managed to evade capture at the cost of someone else.

Tristan and Jesse had been shown detailed schematics of HTUV car engines. In the common room, when they claim the couch and balance portions of stir fry on their laps, Tristan animatedly describes the different HTUV modifications to some kind of engine that increased its overall speed and fuel efficiency. Most of it goes very, very far over Rachel and Lance’s heads, but they do their best to stay engaged, heads nodding at the right times.

Lance’s first gymnastics class was awkward and more an induction to the equipment and safety, but he’s a fast learner and enjoys the different forms of movement compared to his combat and agility training from the previous phases. Jesse shows them her first painting; a truly stunning rendition of Lance, with a triangle face and too-large, too-near eyes. The acrylic paint is bumpy in places Jesse had laid it on too thick, and his shoulders take up the span of the canvas. Lance keeps the painting, setting it on his windowsill where it watches over him as he sleeps. 

* * *

Their first night out had been to JP Licks which, according to Rachel’s Bostonian aunt, is the best ice cream business on the East Coast. Lance had gotten strawberry, Rachel chose toffee, Jesse picked vanilla, and, much to the disgust of his friends, Tristan got mint.

“That’s toothpaste, dude.” Says Lance judgmentally, watching Tristan eat another spoonful of that green abomination. Tristan frowns.

“S’not, it tastes good.” He says, around the mouthful.

“You get the honour of coming with us out to this fine establishment,” says Jesse, gesturing around the buzzing, off-white parlour with her bright green spoon, “and you squander it by getting _that_?”

“Says the sheila who picked the most boring flavour out there.” Retorts Tristan with a raised eyebrow. Jesse scoffs.

“Vanilla is as timeless as it is delicious and versatile, I am insulted you even compared the toothpaste flavour to Madagascan Vanilla Bean.”

“That’s not real vanilla, Jesse.” Says Rachel, who was staring at her cone in resignation. “It’s got none of those flecks, so it’s artificial. Also, both of you are wrong, cookies and cream is the best flavour.”

That starts up another long, drawn out discussion about ice cream; Lance picks out the frozen strawberry bits from his tub and minds his business. They manage to absorb a group of teens into the conversation, who support Tristan’s minty preferences (there really is no hope for the new generation), and eventually get kicked out by the manager for causing a ruckus and blocking the door.

* * *

The vast difference between life at The Stash and life at Camp Exspes is enough to give Lance whiplash. Exspes was heat and scorn, always being stiff and out of breath from hours of physical training. The Stash is foggy, damp days of mind-numbing classes, punctuated by of sparring with his friends and spending hours exploring the city.

In a way that seems to make up for Phase III, calls can be made at any time outside of lesson slots. Lance’s dad picks up the phone within the first three rings. He’s hoarse, but sounds much better than the last time they’d talked.

“Oh, I remember being fitted for my suit. It was probably one of the most exciting things about the training, even if my tailor poked me with the pins more than once.”

Lance remembers that his dad had dropped during this phase, asks him why.

“Ah, yes.” Warren’s voice goes strangely bitter. “It was near the end of the second segment. You could say I’d just… decided it wasn’t for me. Got some high recommendations from past instructors and HTUV paid for my masters in theoretical physics, so long as I worked for them in the Tech Labs.”

Lance hums, nodding.

“Hey, where’d your year go for Phase Four?”

“Oh, somewhere in New York. It was some large apartment building with this abandoned façade - lots of experimentation in disguise technology was going behind the scenes there.”

“Huh, cool.”

Moira is, unsurprisingly, thriving, regaling Lance with the stories of missions she’s coordinated and the praise she’s received from Lindt, who had been supervising them.

_I don’t even know why I bothered with the field agent stuff, Lance._ This _is what I can do._

Lance admires her confidence, and wonders if he’ll feel the same way after graduating. They don’t bring up why she’s no longer a trainee, Lance wonders if all her wounds have healed.

David seems to enjoy having an outlet for all the gossip he’s accumulated over the weeks he’s been working at his café. The techies have been experimenting on a new version of the Piranha Pen called the Boar Pen. They seemed worried about how reactive the solution was, and how difficult it would be to contain the liquid safely. David has a feeling it’ll be dropped like hundreds of other prospects in favour of more effective weapons.

* * *

One day, the candidates are handed out a multitool. Including screwdrivers and a pair of pliers, it also holds skeleton keys for warded locks; curtain picks for lever tumbler locks; tension wrenches, rake picks, hook picks, ball picks and half-diamond picks for pin tumbler locks. Instructor Milosz, who also takes the engineers during specialty training, shows them how to manipulate the driver pins so they pass the shear line and allow the plug to rotate, unlocking the mechanism. 

It’s finicky work, first the lock picker has to find the binding pin, which binds before the rest of the pins and requires more force. Constant tension must be applied with a tension wrench as a rake or a hook is inserted and pokes at the pins until they pass above the shear line, the gap between the housing for the pins and the plug. Milosz explains the concept of the shear line and lock mechanisms using to pieces of paper and a pencil.

“Here in my hands are just two sheets of paper, without much force, they slide over top each other freely. The space in between these sheets is the shear line. However,” Milosz picks up a pencil, “when I stick this pencil through both pieces of paper, they are bound to each other and cannot move independently of one another.” She tries to move the now-stuck pages. “They are locked together, like how a plug and cylinder are locked together by pins and springs.”

It takes Lance ten minutes to open the lock the first time, almost snapping one of his hooks out of impatience. Slowly he gets a feeling for finding the binding pin, and soon, can pick the small tumbler locks they were given in under forty seconds.

They’re then drilled on factory-default combinations for safes. Lance made up a song to remember all eleven, much to the suffering of his friends.

“You got your triple-fifty, ten-twenty-thirty, twenty-fifty-twenty-five-“

“Lance, shut up.”

He does not shut up.

“And now for six variations of the same three numbers!”

Rachel lobs her empty Styrofoam cup at his head as Tristan groans and slumps onto the table. To the side, Jesse quietly sketches out another composition, when Lance tries to sneak a peek, Jesse pushes him away or shields the drawing from view, telling him to be patient.

Typically, HTUV supplies their agents with autodialers that use scoping, penetrating radiation, and analysis of a safe’s electromagnetic emissions to determine the code. But in the event it fails, the trainees are shown how to target the weak points of a safe with their Piranha Pens so they can get access to, and physically manipulate, the bolt mechanism without inputting the code.

For keypads, the agent sends a drone to watch for someone to input it, with HQ relaying the code back to them. A key-card hacker is still developing in the Tech Labs, albeit slowly as more funding is put on combative gadgets and better vehicles.

* * *

One evening, Jesse receives a large envelope, which she brandishes with a smirk.

“Guess what we’re going to do today, guys.”

Rachel looks at the envelope with a raised eyebrow.

“I feel this has something to do with the worryingly thick letter you just got.”

“What could even fit in there?” Asks Tristan.

“We can get letters?” Says Lance, frowning. Jesse deflates.

“None of you are guessing. Fine, I asked my dad to dip into my college fund because, y’know, dropped out of pre-med to join the Marines, not gonna need it anymore. And,” She shakes the package, “guess what just arrived!”

There’s a pause, because it was a long day with McCune memorising HTUV International Affairs Protocol, and they’re all somewhat frazzled. Eventually Jesse sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Shopping. We’re going shopping.”

Rachel makes an _oh_ sound in realisation, Tristan squints.

“At this hour?”

“Tris, it’s only four.”

Tristan seems pleasantly surprised at this revelation.

* * *

Jesse drags them out of the Stash and towards Central Square. It’s later in the afternoon and the crowds are beginning to disperse. She hands the three of them two-hundred dollars each, Lance balks at the amount of money in his hands, he’d just been taking tens and twenties from the exchange desk.

“You dad’s bloody generous there, Jesse.” Remarks Tristan. Jesse flaps her hand and tells them to reconvene in two or so hours by the fountain. Then Jesse marches away in the direction of a thrift store, leaving her now richer friends to fend for themselves.

Rachel turns to the boys.

“I don’t know about you two, but I’m going to check out the bookstores.” She waves goodbye and wanders away.

Lance and Tristan decide to keep together, meandering around the shops, looking for none in particular. After fifteen minutes, they have to nothing to show but a pair of grilled cheese sandwiches from a food truck, and some postcards to send back to Moira, Piotr, and Lance’s dad. Then they rifle through the clothes of a small second-hand clothes store, Lance picks out a bright orange rain jacket, a wine red button up, a pair of well used jeans and a surprisingly clean pair of white runners. Tristan looks at him with an expression of disdain and contempt, mainly because of the jacket. Lance tells Tristan his yellow and blue Hawaiian shirt is no better.

A small storefront catches Lance’s eye. It has a white and yellow awning, the window at the front advertising _Genuine, Second-hand Polaroid Cameras_ at a discounted rate. Lance drags Tristan in by the crook of his arm.

“Hey wh-“

“We’re going camera shopping.”

“But-“

“By we, I mean me. You hang out until I’m done.”

Tristan groans but lets himself be dragged into the shop.

The store clerk talks Lance through the different models available to them while Tristan snoops around, peering at the different cameras behind a plexiglass barrier. Lance is torn between two models, a white Spectra Pro and a black Polaroid Sun 660. The Spectra was smaller and had better autofocus, but the 660 was cheaper and in better condition.

“Hey, Tris.” Tristan twists to where Lance was. Lance holds up the cameras, “which one?” Tristan peers at the models. If Lance didn’t know any better, he would think Tristan actually knew something about cameras. Maybe they had some sort of camera gadget the engineer specialties were familiarised with. Tristan points at the 660.

“That one looks nicer.” Or not.

Lance rolls his eyes, but still makes the purchase along with a couple boxes of instant film.

They make their way out of the shop, Lance pulls the camera out of its box and holds the small device up to his eye. Tristan raises his eyebrow, bracketed by the frame of the lens, chewing on his sandwich.

“Say cheese.”

“No-“

Lance takes the picture as Tristan’s face contorts mid-speech, mouth half open with bits of food visible. The small polaroid picture snaps out of the slot and Lance shakes it as the film develops. He snorts at the image and shows it to Tristan, carefully out of arm’s reach.

“Very handsome there, McFord.”

Tristan looks at the image like it personally offends him. He starts walking towards Lance.

“Let’s see how you like it then, you little bastard!”

Tristan makes a grab for the camera. Lance ducks under his arm and dashes to the fountain where he sees Jesse and Rachel. Tristan runs after him, trying to snatch the camera out of Lance’s hands. They weave through the crowd, Lance using the bodies to stop Tristan from getting the device. When he reaches the girls, he thrusts the camera into Rachel’s hands. She’s wearing a red denim jacket now.

“Here - yours now.” He pants. Tristan quickly catches up and holds his palm up at Rachel.

“Could you – hand that over?”

Rachel looks at him with a raised eyebrow and doesn’t move, except for pressing a button on the camera. It lets out a flash.

“No.” She says, barely hiding a smirk. Another less-than-flattering picture of Tristan shoots out. Lance points at Tristan.

“Ha!”

Another flash and a click, this time a photo of Lance develops. He’s mid-blink, one eye open and the other closed. His mouth is open, and he has a double chin.

“Oh my god,” he exclaims when she shows him the photo. “Rachel, burn that.”

“Absolutely not.” She tucks the two photos into a pocket, Lance and Tristan slump in defeat. Rachel turns to Jesse, who poses for her picture with a wink and a peace-sign. Jesse returns the favour, Rachel giving her a classic over-the-shoulder look to show off her new jacket.

“These are staying with me; we’ll make a board or something for them later.” She says. “I’ll keep an eye out for an album to store them in for now.”

Lance spends the rest of their day out trying to guilt, bribe, or steal his picture back. Rachel stands firm, occasionally flapping the polaroid in his face just to _mock_ him. Lance gasps at her cold-heartedness, Jesse snickers at his pain.

They’re taught by Ming on how to pickpocket, as a team and individuals. It involves the redirection of a target’s attention, like much of what the operator training had focused on. Maybe they’re already distracted, or asleep, and won’t notice someone drawing a little bit too near, their hand lowering and reaching for something before continuing on. Other times, you can orchestrate a fall or an accident that distracts them from the fact that you slipped their wallet, out of their back pocket.

They’re shown how to disconnect ring clips, how to make bumping into someone seem like a complete mistake, how to keep an innocent face should anyone accuse them of thievery. Lance finds he’s beginning to mirror Ming when acting as a spy, giving off an air of general bemusement, eyes hooded and mouth twitching in a smirk. 

He tries to get his picture back, but Rachel, who’s also an operative, is more than capable of fending off his attempts. Neither Jesse nor Tristan are brave enough to help him reclaim the photos, either.

* * *

Lance only realises what day it is when he’s calling his dad, it’s been around four weeks and time is beginning to have very little meaning at this point in the phase.

“Happy birthday, Lance!” Warren exclaims. “I’ve sent your present to The Stash, the receptionist should be holding onto it if it’s anything like how The Burrow did it.”

“Aw, dad, you shouldn’t have,” Lance says with a smile.

“Nonsense, you’re still my kid and I get to treat you now and again.” Warren sniffs, Lance chuckles. “Still, have a good birthday, Lance. Enjoy your first drink. When you get home, we’ll share one ourselves.”

Lance is giddy for the rest of the day and it shows; he leg bounces through the two hour lessons on deportment and etiquette, he struggles to keep a straight face during operator training and, as he spars with Tristan, his motions are jumpy and impatient.

Tristan grunts, blocking Lance’s quick-succession punches with his forearms before stepping forward and sending a blow of his own. Lance rears back and suddenly jumps, kicking mid-air. If Gila were there to see it, she would’ve bent Lance’s ear over how dramatic and flashy he was being. Tristan stumbles back, frowning.

“Alright, what’s got you so hyper?” He says, panting from the exertion. Lance bounces on the balls of his feet.

"Oh, nothing.” He says, jumping on the spot, rolling his shoulders. Tristan doesn’t look convinced. “Just that, it’s my birthday and all.” Tristan drops his guard completely.

“It is? Shit, why didn’t you tell us? Happy birthday mate.” Lance responds by jolting forward and sending a sharp blow to Tristan’s unprotected sternum. Tristan curses behind gritted teeth.

“Thank you.” Lance smirks after retreating a safe distance. Tristan rolls his eyes, rubbing his chest before returning to fighting stance.

“Let’s give you your lumps then.” He says, smiling sharply and advancing on Lance. Lance tries to twist away but Tristan catches him around the neck with one arm.

“One! Two! Three! Four!” He hammers his fist against Lance’s back, grinning.

“Get off!” Lance yelps. He struggles in vain, but Tristan’s the oldest of three boys; he’s had _practice_. 

Stiffly, Lance sulks up the stairway with Tristan not far behind, grinning like a cat that caught a mouse. Jesse’s reading a book with a Spanish title in the common area. She catches sight of the two.

“There a reason Lance looks that miserable?”

“Birthday boy got his birthday bumps!” Says Tristan, shaking Lance by his shoulder. Lance rolls his eyes.

“Asshole held me down and punched me twenty-one times.” 

“That’s fair.” Jesse says, nodding. Then, she perks up. “Wait, it’s your birthday? Dude, you can drink now! Happy fucking days!” She scrambles off the couch and runs down the hallway to Rachel’s room, banging on her door and telling her the news.

"Why didn't you tell us?" Rachel asks Lance, looking genuinely sad. Lance shrugs, never needing to inform people on his birthday. Rachel _humphs_ , shoos Lance away, and starts talking with Tristan and Jesse. 

Jesse and Rachel are late to the next training slot, rushing into the room out of breath and frazzled. Jesse shoots Lance a smile as they filter into their seats. He raises an eyebrow in suspicion but quickly returns his attention back to Milosz showing them how to pick handcuff locks. 

* * *

In the early evening, Lance walks through the tunnel and to site Beta. The receptionist hands him a small, velvet box with a card attached. Lance opens the envelope with his thumb as he walks out of the building, excitement building.

_Lance A. Sterling,_

_I was intending to gift this to you in person, should you drop or graduate from the program. But now that you’ve turned twenty-one, I know this is the right time to finally hand it over to you. I hope it brings you the same pride and comfort as it did me, all these years._

_Treat it well son._

_Love,_

_Warren P. Sterling_

Lance stops in front of the stairwell and carefully opens the box. In it is a ring, a thick silver band with a rectangular, blue stone. Lance gasps, he knows it’s made from sterling silver and lapis lazuli - he’s seen it on his dad’s hand almost every day. This is a Sterling family heirloom, passed down from father to son.

Lance pulls the ring from the holder with reverence. He swears it feels as old as he thinks it is. He holds the ring between his index finger and thumb, the lights glint off the polished metal, and Lance admires the faint green and yellow marbling throughout the lapis.

He feels the air around him go quiet, like it’s just him and the ring. Lance remembers his dad pulling him onto his lap and showing him the ring. It was always kept in stunning condition; it’s been in Warren’s family for over one-hundred years. Lance would inherit it when he came of age, just like his dad did.

Lance stands there, in a special agent training facility in Boston, holding the gift. He feels a surge of pride and love. He smiles, wiping away gathering tears, before pocketing the card and slipping the ring on his middle finger.

It feels right.

* * *

Lance walks up the stairway slowly, focused on the orange light glinting off the _sterling_ silver. When he reaches the dorms, Jesse runs up to him and grabs his wrist.

“Follow me, now.” She drags him to room 96, Tristan’s dorm. The desk has been dragged into the middle of the room and there’s a flash from his camera as he enters. Blinking away the light, Lance wonders when Rachel managed to filch it. Placed neatly in the middle of the desk, was a single chocolate muffin with a tea light perched precariously on top. Tristan and Rachel stand on the other side of the desk, cheap lighters in hand. Tristan clears his throat and they spark the lighters in eerie synchronisation. Jesse pushes him down onto the seat while they sing a discordant rendition of the happy birthday song, occasionally punctuated by the flash of the camera.

Lance hides a smile behind his hand, looking up to his friend and down to the solitary muffin.

“I just, wow.” He says, after they finish the song. “You guys really splurged, huh.

“Be grateful babyface,” starts Jesse. “Tristan just wanted to get you a _picture_ of a cake that we set on fire. So be a good boy and eat your birthday muffin so we can take you out for drinks.”

The muffin is surprisingly good. Rachel and Jesse had ran out into town, trying to find birthday candles and some kind of baked good within twenty minutes. They’d managed to find a small pack of muffins, but no candles. Then, at the last minute, Rachel remembered seeing a set of tea lights at the thrift store, because of course someone would donate that. Lance shows them his new ring, which receives the _ooh’s_ and _ah’s_ it deserves

* * *

Jesse leads them to a nightclub in Everett, it’s a Wednesday night but the place is still packed. Tristan is in his Phase IV uniform while Lance, Rachel and Jesse are wearing their thrifted clothes. Rachel’s also managed to get her hands on large, golden hoops and bright red lipstick. Lance is reminded how stunning she is as she smiles and laughs along with their friends.

They manage to elbow their way to a table, Tristan bravely volunteering Jesse to go get them drinks. The room seems to throb as almost one-hundred young people jump and yell to the blasting music. Lance can barely hear what Rachel and Tristan are saying right in front of him.

Jesse returns, laden with four glasses of beer. She delicately sets them on the table, white foam threatening to spill over the edges. They take a glass each and Rachel holds her up in a toast.

“To the birthday boy!” She yells, over the music. The other three mirror her pose, smiling. They clink glasses and take a drink. Rachel takes a mouthful before setting it down, licking her top lip. Jesse and Tristan lock eyes and start chugging but have to stop to laugh when Lance takes his first, overly ambitious, gulp and immediately starts sputtering.

“Not to your taste there, Lance?” Remarks Tristan, holding in a laugh. Jesse is bracing herself on the table, chortling freely. Lance sticks out his tongue in disgust.

“God that tastes like ass.” He says.

“Well hand it over, no point in letting good beer go to waste.”

Lance holds the glass closer to his body.

“I’m still gonna drink it!” He says, sounding almost offended. To prove his point, Lance takes a more careful sip. He grimaces, then takes a larger mouthful before setting the pint glass back on the table. “Yep. Totally enjoy this.”

Jesse and Tristan try to see who can knock back the most shots in a minute, but Rachel immediately shoots them down, reminding everyone that they still have training in the morning and she’s not willing to deal with them hungover. Jesse and Tristan sulk, downing three more pints each in between dancing and talking. Lance and Rachel share a strawberry daiquiri, which Lance enjoys more than the beer. The alcohol leaves a pleasant warmth and buzz in Lance’s system.

Jesse and Tristan seem on the more drunk side of buzzed. Afterwards, Lance and Rachel nudge them across the Andrew McArdle Bridge. The damp, autumn air is sharp, with a chill that reminds Lance of D.C.

“Aw c’mon, Rach, I’m not that drunk!” Says Jesse, slurring. Rachel has an arm wrapped firmly around Jesse’s waist to stop her from leaning over the rail again.

“Sure. I’m not letting go, though.”

Lance knows Tristan would take his head off if he held him, so Lance opts to put his body between Tristan and any potential hazards.

It’s like herding tall, buff cats, but eventually they make it to The Stash and up the stairs with minimal complaining. Tristan seems to be a quiet drunk; during the journey back home he’d fixed his gaze to the ground, frowning in thought. When they enter through the emergency exit, and wrangle Jesse to her room, Lance notices Tristan leaving back down the stairs out the corner of his eye. Frowning, he follows.

* * *

Tristan’s drunk. He’s drunk and he knows he shouldn’t be doing this, but he’s drunk and he doesn’t care. The logical part of him is yelling all the reasons he shouldn’t call their number but… but…

The dial tone rings and he holds his breath in anticipation.

“Hello, McFord residence.”

“Kyle, I-“

“Sorry, wrong number.”

“Kyle, please! Just, just listen to me.”

There’s no response on the other end, but he doesn’t hang up. Now’s his chance, for the first time in two years, to talk to his little brother. Only, nothing comes to mind. He didn’t think he’d get this far.

“I… I…” his mind races for something to say, anything. “Shit.”

“Are you drunk? Are you bloody drunk?” Kyle sounds older now, and so angry. When’d that happen? What have Donna and Russell done to his sweet, kid brother?

“No, yes, I mean-“

“Right.” Kyle huffs a bitter laugh. “Don’t call again or I’m telling dad you’ve been phoning the house.”

“What? Kyle, you’re not giving me a chance.”

“You don’t deserve it, you hit dad and made mum cry. Now you’re in America of all places, drunk off your arse and wasting everyone’s time. If anything’s going to get through your thick skull it better be this: Go. Away.” Then he hangs up, abruptly. Tristan is left to the droning sound of silence.

Rage surges through him and he makes a choked scream at how unfair this all is. He’s angry at Donna for getting her claws into Kyle, angry at Kyle for giving up on him, angry at himself for being such a coward and a failure. Maybe if he’d had the guts to be a man and stand his ground, explain himself, to call when he’s not pissed, this wouldn’t be happening.

Then it burns up, and nothing but a deep sadness is left. Kyle’s only seventeen; he doesn’t know what he’s saying. But it still _hurts_ because that’s his baby brother. Tristan remembers holding him when he was born, remembers helping him with math homework and teaching him how to ride a bike, and helping him deal with schoolyard bullies, and hugging him after their dad yelled at them, and playing little games with his little brothers during the long, boring parties his parents would throw at New Years.

Him and Danny used to look at Tristan with so much trust and love. Tears well up and begin to fall down his cheeks, Tristan chokes back a sob.

He slides down the wall and onto the ground, grateful he chose now to call and not during the daytime. He digs the heels of his palms into his eyes, trying to will himself to stop crying, trying to get angry again because that’s more familiar than this feeling of rejection and pain. It doesn’t work. The phone dangles by its cord, emitting that droning buzz. He doesn’t hear the approaching footsteps.

“Tristan?” He inhales sharply and looks up at a concerned Lance.

“Go away.” He growls, sniffling. There’s no bite to it, only a rasping sorrow.

“What happened, man?” There’s a pause as Lance looks at the phone and pieces things together. “Oh, Tristan. You tried calling them again, didn’t you?” And Lance’s voice is soft as he reaches out to touch Tristan’s shoulder. But Tristan jerks up and away, because kindness was once a weapon used against him by someone he trusted. He feels a spark of anger at the intrusion and clings to it.

“Fuck off. You don’t know shit about me.” Lance rears back, palms open in surrender.

“You can’t- you don’t get to ask me that. How the fuck do you even know about them? They don’t- I can’t-“ Tristan’s drunk and the words are all clamouring in his throat, blocking each other from exit. His frustration mounts. He makes a choked scream. “They just dropped me like I was _shit_. And… and I’m alone now and-“

Strong arms encircle him as Lance draws Tristan into a fierce hug. Tristan freezes before melting into the embrace, burying his tear stained face in the crook of his friend’s neck, and clutching at his jacket. He cries in earnest and doesn’t try to stop it. When was the last time someone had held him like this? Lance rubs his back silently.

They stay like that until Tristan can’t cry anymore. Then they stay a little longer, sitting side by side, not yet willing to brave the rest of the world.

Tristan dries his eyes and cheeks on the hem of his shirt, and they make their way to the dorms. If anyone sees them, they don’t comment on Tristan’s red eyes and the wet splotches on Lance’s shirt. Lance walks him to his room; they share no more than a look before Tristan slinks in.

That night, Tristan doesn’t dream. He’s grateful for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tristan's having some form of catharsis, at least is there for him :(
> 
> whippet transportations is based off of greyhound lmao
> 
> also, hey a tristan pov, those'll probably increase in quantity in later chapters
> 
> this phase is mainly meant to help the candidates grow, interact and mirrors what their own daily lives might be like as field agents.  
> i MAY have based the suits lance and co were fitted for on killian's suit in the movie for........ reasons....  
> the other uniform they were given is ripped from the concept art of killian, the one where he's wearing a black turtleneck with the HTUV logo on the side, once again hinting at the scrapped agent mcford plot.  
> i like to think of mccune as the vodka aunt who's committed war crimes, her first name is Saoirse, pronounced Sor-Shuh


	18. Phase IV - (part iii)

The next morning, Tristan isn’t sure if the headache is from the alcohol or the events of last night. He wants to lay in bed for the rest of his life, just want to shut his eyes and _rest_. Instead, he drags himself out of bed and into his morning routine. Best to just keep going.

* * *

McCune has the trainees in a bar room; she stands in front of a rich, oak counter. Behind her is an enormous cabinet filled with glittering glasses of liquor. Amber, green, blue, and clear liquids shine from the lighting. Shelves are lined with hundreds of different glasses. Thick, porcelain steins sit beside delicate, crystal wine glasses. Rows of upside-down shot glasses and tumblers emphasise the height of champagne flutes. Frosted glass overlooks a white and grey cityscape, pale sunlight streaming into the room.

“Drinks are a very good social lubricant.” McCune starts. Lance sits on one of the leather barstools as she lines up different glasses along the counter. “It loosens lips, lowers inhibitions, eases one’s guard. When in the field, it’s a common tactic for drawing information out of a target.”

She sets the last glass, of thirty-six, down on the counter by its stem.

“And it’s a good way to impress someone when you know how to mix their favourite drink.”

McCune gestures to eleven glass in the row, all for different kinds of wine.

“The bowl of a wine glass enhances the smell while also allowing the space for it to swirl. The stem is meant to be held so the drink doesn’t heat up from your palm. Wine can be quite fragrant as well; it often masks any sort of chemical tampering.”

Lance still can’t tell the different between the Pinot Noir and Rosé glasses and as he’s staring at them, trying to find the key differences McCune had pointed out, she’s already moved on to bar glasses.

“While most people probably don’t care that you know the specific glass a Zombie is served with; it’s the psychological aspect of being able to show, off the bat, that you know more than them. This establishes a sort of power dynamic where the target is slightly more willing to both listen to you and impress you with their own knowledge. Pride may win out, or even some repressed complex. Either way, they may slip up or lower their guard enough for you to get what you need.”

She shows them how to tell the difference between real and fake crystal by tapping a fingernail against the rim. If a melodic song rings out, it’s genuine. She describes different reasons for how a glass is shaped, from ease of storage, to keeping the drink cold, to preventing spilling.

“Now, I don’t particularly care about martinis, I'm not partial to the taste and they’re overused in those godawful spy movies.” McCune holds up an empty tumbler, setting other glasses to the side. “Instead, every good HTUV agent should know how to mix an Old Fashioned.” By the tumbler, she sets down several items: a cocktail stirrer, Boston shaker, strainers, peeler, jiggers, and a steel muddler.

McCune crushes a cube of brown sugar and four dashes of bitters in a lowball glass with the muddler. She fills the larger half of a jigger with whiskey, Lance sees the liquid form a small dome over the rim, pouring it into the glass. She adds one large ice cube that’s nearly the size of the glass, stirring the mixture with the long cocktail stirrer.

“Stir to dilute, but never over stir an Old Fashioned. Allow the ice cubes to melt and incorporate into the drink, but only just.” She makes several quick rotations, pulling the stirrer out and flicking away the drips with a precise motion. Her hands are thick, like a farmer’s, but she handles the delicate glasses with a practiced gentleness and ease.

Finally, McCune peels the rind of an orange and a lemon, rubbing the skins over the rim of the glass before setting them into the drinks with a flourish. She holds the glass up, taking a long sip.

“And that is how you make a proper Old Fashioned.” She says, smacking her lips. “Personally I enjoy pairing this with a good cigar, Castro was always one for a nice wee chat, but Joy has made her distaste for me encouraging candidates to drink and smoke quite clear. So I’ll just teach you how to _make_ drinks and let youse figure the rest out.” She winks, lined face pulling into a grin.

The trainees are handed their own bartender’s sets, standing at the surrounding tables and watching McCune mix the drinks, following her instructions. By the end of the class, Lance knows how to mix a Mojito, Margarita, Old Fashioned and a Negroni. He tries to get fancy with the shaker, throwing one of the stainless-steel cups in the air as a flourish, but it bounces off his fingertips and rolls along the floor. He curses, rushing after the escaping cup, hoping no one saw. It stops by someone’s foot.

“Hey could you hand me-“

The foot kicks the cup to the wall. Lance straightens, scowling.

“What the hell man?”

It was Jason, who’s looking at Lance with a smug expression.

“Is there a problem back there, trainees?” McCune’s voice calls from the front of the room.

Lance stares at Jason, frustrated and confused. Jason’s smug look becomes a baleful glare, a strange feeling of unease bubbles in Lance’s guts.

“… No sir,” says Lance, looking away. ”Everything’s fine.”

He feels Jason’s eyes burning into the back of his neck for the rest of the class.

* * *

The weeks march onwards. Like a train that gains more cabs as it continues down the rail, Lance’s workload grows, with focus on the written aspects of bartending, on essays about pickpocketing scenarios, flag quizzes, multiple choice questions about lock picking, image association with organised crime-related symbols. The candidates are shown the basics of target pursuit, and how to find them in a crowded place. Sometimes they have to pick out their target, based on their description, from a large, Where's Waldo-esque sheet.

Once, the candidates were told to choose from a line up of people, one of them held the stolen launch codes to nuclear missiles, and it was up to the agent to retrieve them. The candidates stand up to the screen, one by one, and have less than five seconds to choose a target to follow. When all the candidates had been up, McCune returns to the front of the class.

“Now, there’s never a right nor wrong answer when it comes to this exercise. But there are strong and weak arguments for the choices we’ve made.” Her gaze flicks to Lance. “Mr Sterling, you were the only one to pick the little girl as your target. Could you tell us why? Or was it merely a mis-click?”

Lance straightens in his seat.

“No, sir, it wasn’t. She just made the most sense, out of everyone.”

She looks at him, motioning to continue, eyes glittering.

“I mean, little white girl in an abandoned alleyway, carrying an advanced particle physics book? Kind of suspicious, that book’s way above her reading level and she has no business there, unless she was hired to move the codes, hidden in her book, from one place to the other. No one’s gonna suspect a kid at face value, and that’s why she’d be the best option for a smart bad guy.”

McCune nods, processing his words.

“Interesting reasoning, but not unsound.”

She turns back to the board, continuing the lesson. Lance glows at the half-compliment.

* * *

He works out in the small gym, attends classes, spars with his friends, reads while his clothes run through their washing and drying cycles at the laundromat, calls Moira, David, and his dad. Lance feels a contentedness at the routine, wondering if his life as an agent will be like this. The Bar Exam slowly advances, but after all he’s been through from the previous phases, Lance can’t find it in himself to be terrified for it; more excited to show off what he’s learned so far.

He's advanced far enough in his gymnastics classes to where he can comfortably execute a back handspring, which he demonstrates to his friends with mixed results - he does the handspring fine enough, but he also knocks a clock off the wall, breaking it. Jesse chokes on her own spit laughing at him, while Rachel and Tristan look on with immense disappointment.

Sometimes, if Lance walks past one of the music rooms, he can hear Rachel and Tristan playing together. Once they were talking about scales, something Rachel never learned, because her grandfather was self taught. Tristan would talk her through the different notes, grousing about the hours he'd spend having to perfect them as a kid. 

Jesse finds a niche in landscape painting. While she has very little passion for portraits, she enjoys sinking hours into detailed pieces of farmland, mountains, deserts, and swamps. Her art improves slowly, little improvements in colour value and shading that enhances the quality of the painting.

* * *

“Adrian? That actually kind of suits you.” Says Jesse, after Lance tells her his middle name during a conversation at breakfast.

“It was going to be my name, but mom lost the coin toss, so dad’s choice came first.” Lance smiles at the compliment. “What’s yours?”

“I don’t have a middle name,” grouses Jesse.

“I have two, so you can borrow one of mine, for a small fee.” Replies Rachel with a smile.

“Why do you have so many names in the first place?” Asks Tristan.

“Rachel Aisha Burgess Alverez,” She raises a finger for each name. “I have two first names, but I go by Rachel. My _apellido paterno_ is Burgess, my father’s paternal surname, my _apellido materno_ is Alverez, which is my mother’s paternal surname.

“My mom convinced my dad to follow Puerto Rican naming customs; it doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue because dad’s not Hispanic, but I don’t mind.” She explains, shrugging.

“Huh,” Tristan nods as he takes in the information. “Mine’s Keller, it was my mum’s maiden name.”

“Oh c’mon, you’ve all got such cool names, what the hell!” Exclaims Jesse, her frantic distress drawing a chuckle out of them. There's a pause, then Jesse turns to Rachel, mischievous expression on her face.

“Can I call you Rab?” Jesse asks Rachel. Rachel stares straight ahead.

“Try it and see what happens.”

“Aw, dude, that kinda sounds like a threat.” Lance says to Jesse.

“C’mon, Jesse, try it. Don’t be a coward.” Adds Tristan, smirking. Jesse looks at Rachel and wisely decides to stay quiet. 

* * *

They’re back in the nightclub at Everett, three days before the Bar Exam. Lance is nursing a Long Island iced tea by the bar while talking about the fantasy book Rachel had lent him. They have different interpretations on the open ending. To their left, Jesse and Tristan are debating different motorcycle builds.

A blond man wearing a tank top saunters over to where Tristan and Jesse are, leaning on the counter with a pint in hand. He clears his throat and they turn to look at him.

“G’day, mate, I was listening in on your conversation and I couldn’t help but notice your accent.” The man shoots Tristan a brilliant smile and speaks in a clear, English accent. “Are you perhaps from the Big Smoke? I spent a year abroad there, picked up some of the local slang, and just thought it was quite a coincidence to meet an Aussie in a boozer afterwards.”

Tristan looks at him, face blank.

“Right. Normally I’d just ignore some figjam pommie like yourself, but you’re fit. So you’re going to try that again, only this time don’t make a fool of yourself, yeah?”

The Brit’s eyes go comically wide, he straightens and sputters out an apology. Tristan raises an eyebrow.

“Call me Tristan. You?”

“Oh, er, Maurice.”

“Nice to meet ya.”

Maurice nods, bright red. Then he turns on his heel and scurries back to what Lance assumes to be his group of friends. Jesse lets out a snort.

“Real smooth, that one.”  
  


“Eh, he’s got a nice arse at least.” Shrugs Tristan. They return to their drinks, Lance wonders if they know he was listening. He pretends not to see Tristan’s lingering stare at the man, it's none of his business.

* * *

The Bar Exam is held in the computer suite, a rectangular room filled with strangely thin computers, similar to the one Lance had seen in Gila’s office. It was the same length as the Aptitude Exam, but instead of solving math problems and writing moral quandary essay, Lance had to match every world flag to its corresponding country, answer multiple choice questions on bartending, single out the face of a target in a crowded street, and identify different organised crime symbols; like the white supremacist Golden Ouroboros, and the head of a snarling jackal, used by a scavenger mercenary band across the pond.

There is only pass and fail in the exam, seventy-five percent being the passing mark. When Lance submits his work, a loading bar pops up and slowly fills. The screen shows him his name, candidate number and what the exam was, beside a large, green **PASS**. He rolls his shoulders and smirks, because he wasn’t worried; he’s got this.

Out of the thirty-five candidates, one fails. Instructor Ming taps Ramira’s shoulder, and escorts her to her room to pack away her things. Lance doesn’t notice, too busy planning a celebratory night out with his friends.

* * *

They have the weekend off, both as a reward and to rest for the week-long underwater demolitions’ training with Frog. What else where Lance and his friends supposed to do, but go out drinking?

He’s more than a little bit tipsy, the room is beginning to fishbowl around him, and Lance has the overwhelming urge to walk on over to that fine group of ladies and ask how their night has been. But his legs might give out if he gets up, so he sticks with looking over and smiling sweetly. Some of the girls giggle when they notice his dopey grin. Someone pokes his cheek, Lance flops over to see Jesse looking at him with amusement.

“We’re gonna go get Thai, I told Tristan where we’re going but he was giving that English dude the eyes, so he might be a while." Lance feels Jesse’s hands underneath his armpits, "Come on you big lump, up we go.” They slowly make their way out of the bar. Lance rests his cheek on Jesse’s shoulder.

“I like yooouuu.” He slurs.

“I like you too, baby face.” Jesse hums, leading them down the street.

Lance is set down on a stool in the small Thai restaurant, Jesse hands him a bottle of water. Lance slowly gains a semblance of soberness as he sits underneath the AC unit, sipping at the drink. He remembers a dish he’d always had when he was a kid, getting takeout with his dad; green curry with coconut rice. The Thai here also offers it, to Lance’s excitement.

Lance cradles his takeout container, enjoying the warmth seeping into his hands and the smell of the food. He missed takeout. Lance sits in between Rachel and Jesse, their arms and shoulders pressing into his with comforting weight. It’s been around twenty minutes since they’d left the bar, but Tristan had yet to appear. The faint murmur of conversation and the whir of a fan fills the building. Lance’s eyelids begin to drop and he makes a jaw-cracking yawn.

“Hey, I’m gonna head back to early, I don’t want this to get cold and I’m kinda tired.” He says, standing up.

Rachel and Jesse let him go, telling him to be safe. They’ll wait for Tristan so they can yell at him for taking so long. Lance waves goodbye, stumbling into the streets.

* * *

Orange lamplight leave a dim reflection on the damp sidewalk. The sky is black but there are no stars. In the distance, glass breaks and Lance hears people’s voices. People walk down the street, a guy in a hoodie crosses the street. Cars roll by, original paintjobs obscured by the night. Lance huffs, hoping the chilly air will clear his head somewhat. His boots splash in a puddle.

Then, Lance realises that the guy in a hoodie might be following him.

He grits his teeth and picks up his pace. He hears louder, more rapid footsteps behind him. Lance curses under his breath and looks behind him, wondering if it’s too late to head back to the Thai place where Rachel and Jesse are. There’s more than one person behind him now.

Lance quickly turns down an alleyway, hoping they’re just walking, and that he’s just paranoid. The alley stops at a dead end, bracketed by brick buildings and metal staircases. Lance ducks behind a dumpster, peering out into the street.

Three men block the entrance to the alley, their shadows crawling long the pavement. Lance hears them whisper to each other.

_I_ _thought he went down this one._

_Go check if you’re so sure._

One of the figures stalks in. Lance tenses, fist tightening around the plastic bag of his takeout.

He thinks, maybe if they don’t see him, they’ll leave and he can get home safe. But they’re actively stalking him, maybe they know where he lives, have they been waiting for him to be alone? Lance lets a small breath out, and as the man walks closer to his hiding place, he braces for a fight.

A head peeks around the dumpster, eyes widen as they catch sight of Lance. Before they can react, Lance throws his heavy, warm container of takeout at them. It slams into their face and they reel backwards. Lance surges forward, grabbing the collar of their hoodie and kneeing them in the groin. The figure topples, groaning. As Lance kicks them in the head, he hears shouting and running behind him.

He ducks under a punch and tries to swerve around them and run out of the alleyway. Someone grabs the back of his collar, dragging him towards them. Lance twists and uses the momentum to barrel into the person who grabbed him. They both go to the ground with a collective grunt. Lance manages to stay on top, straddling their chest. As he pulls back a clenched fist, he freezes.

“Jason?”

The third person tackles Lance off Jason. They pin him to the ground with one hand, sending vicious punches down his side and at his head with the other. Just like how Gila had taught them. Lance grunts and bucks, trying to get them off of him. Lance manages to get one hand free, biting down the pain from the hits, he palms around the ground for something solid. Lance’s fingers close around a flat, hard surface and with a sudden twist the brick connects with his attacker’s temple. They scream and fall to the side, clutching their head.

Lance wheeze as he rises, trying to blink grit out of his eyes. He sees the glint of a blade and instinctively rears back as Jason _swipes at him with a knife_.

“What the fuck, man? What did I do to you?” Lance yells, almost hysterical because he’s in the middle of Boston being attacked with a knife by someone who lives in the same building as him. Jason just grunts, continuing his attack. Lance’s brain kicks into overdrive, trying to find a weapon or a shield.

With a motion that squeezes all the blood out of Lances heart, he slips. Lance falls and bangs his head off the edge of the dumpster, biting his tongue and cutting his palms on the rough pavement. Jason stands over him. The orange lights casting a twisted halo in his hair. Lance looks up at him, confused, scared, and hopes he can find another brick, because the look in Jason’s eyes makes shivers run down his spine. Jason doesn’t say anything. He just comes closer.

Jason can’t do anything because the sound of combat boots slapping against the pavement grows louder. Lance almost cries at the sight of Tristan sprinting around the corner.

_“What the fuck are you doing with my friend.”_ He snarls, sending a heavy, merciless punch to Jason’s jaw. Lance can hear the impact. Jason rears back and turns to face Tristan, trying to slash across his body.

Tristan catches Jason’s arm and twists his wrist so his palm faces skyward, dropping the knife. Jason bends over to compensate for the strain. Then Tristan sends those hard, heavy punches Lance has been on the receiving end up, at Jason’s ribs, flank, kidneys. Jason makes a high-pitched choking sound as he tries to squirm away from Tristan, whose face in contorted into a wide eyed, furious glare.

Tristan forces Jason to the ground with a sharp kick to the back of his knee. He pushes Jason’s face onto the filthy pavement. Tristan gets close to him, baring his teeth. He says, in such a way that only Jason can hear:

_You lay a finger on Lance again and I’ll do worse than this._

His voice is low and rumbles like avalanche, the promise of violence so tangible that Jason knows he isn’t exaggerating. Jason freezes, and stays on the ground as Tristan stands, grabs Lance’s wrist, and hurries out onto the street. Lance looks back to the scene, but not at the people.

In the alleyway, Lance’s takeout is spilled out onto the pavement and garbage. He can see the scattered grains of rice and glistening puddles of sauce. Lance feels a strange rush of sadness at the sight of it; he was looking forward to that meal.

* * *

They run to The Stash, Lance’s sides ache with each breath and his head is pounding. Tristan keeps an iron grip around his wrist, leading him up the stairs and into the dorms. They stop in the hallway, panting and bruised. Lance finally gets a good look at Tristan, his hair is mussed and most of his chest is laid bare from his unbuttoned shirt. Lance sees a hickey forming on his neck, contrasting his bruised knuckles. Tristan looks at the door, then at Lance.

“I’m- I’m gonna go get Rachel and Jesse, stay here, alright?” He pants, buttoning his shirt.

Lance nods numbly, not entirely taking in what had just happened; that Jason had tried to hurt him, maybe even kill him. Tristan frowns, a concerned expression cracking across his face. He puts a both hands on Lance’s shoulders.

“Stay in your room until we get back, okay? Then we can go find someone to report this to. I don’t want you alone, but it’s best if you’re behind those thick doors, yeah?” Tristan waits for Lance to nod again, trying to catch his eyes, which are fixed on the ground at their shoes. He has a spatter of green curry on his laces he can’t stop looking at. 

* * *

Lance sits in furthest corner of his room for what feels like hours, barricading the door with his desk. His hands shake from the adrenaline and each inhale leaves a lingering ache. He closes his eyes and feels the hard pavement, the glint of a knife in orange lamplight. He tries to keep them open, staying awake for as long as possible by keeping his lights on and staring at the ceiling.

There’s a knocking at the door that almost gives him a heart attack, regardless of how soft it is.

“… Lance?” Rachel’s voice calls out. “It’s us, can you open the door please?”

Lance pushes the desk out of the way and cracks open the door to see his friends wearing matching expressions of rage and concern. He opens it fully to let them in.

“Let’s go to the main building and see if a receptionist is there, and we can report Jason.” Says Jesse, she sounds calm, like she’s been planning what to do as she walked back to The Stash.

“Lance, how are you holding up?” Asks Tristan, as they cautiously make their way down the stairs, watchful for any aggressors. Lance wheezes with each step and he runs his tongue over a developing scab on his lip. His hands feel cold and sweaty and he just wants to go to bed.

“I’m fine.” He tells them.

They walk through the tunnel. No one speaks, the sounds of overhead cars a banshee’s call for what’s to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> poor thing :(
> 
> the fight between jason and tristan mirrors the one between gila and moira, if you go back there's a couple of matching phrases
> 
> lance: back at it again at the crispy creme
> 
> tristan, to maurice: you're stupid, i like that in a man


	19. Phase IV - (part iv)

Despite the late hour, McCune is as bright eyed and well dressed as always. Lance explains what happened while a nurse methodically checks him for concussion and broken ribs.

“- And he just stood over me, like he was relishing it. Then, Tristan found me and fought him off, and we ran back to The Stash.”

McCune sits in a blue chair, resting her elbows on the arm rests. Her fingers are steepled and she peers at Lance with a carefully neutral expression, nodding and only speaking to ask questions.

Did Lance recognise the other two.

( _No, but they fought like trainees_ ).

Did Lance know the street he was on.

( _No, but I can show you where_ ).

Were there any other witnesses.

( _No… I don’t know…_ ).

On the other bed, Tristan’s hands are prodded at and tested for any breaks. The nurse disinfects the cut where Jason’s teeth had split his knuckles. Lance stares at the red, irritated wound as he trails off. Some of his ribs are taped and the nurse gives him ibuprofen for the pain. They also cleaned his palms and carefully dabbed at the cut on his lip. His head aches from the overhead fluorescent lighting.

“McFord, can you recount your actions during this time?” She asks, eyes flicking over to his tense frame, like a bull wire tightened too far.

Tristan looks up from the floor, then back down again upon seeing McCune’s eyes on him.

“I was headin’ back from the bar later than the rest, wanted to stay for an extra drink.” He doesn’t bring up Maurice, eyes focused on a chipped piece of tile. “And I’d walked to the Thai place our friends had mentioned they were at. Lance wasn’t there and the girls said he’d walked home early.” Tristan frowns at the floor, shrugging. “I don’t know why, but I’d gotten a bad feeling about it, so I started walking back to The Stash - there’s a route we usually take.” He adds. Lance notes how Tristan lapses into a thicker Australian accent as he continues the story.

“And, I hear these sounds like someone’s in a fight. Then I hear Lance’s voice, and he’s yellin’ at someone. So I book it to the alleyway, round the corner, and there’s Lance on the ground with some bloke standin’ over him with a knife in his hand.

“And I got pissed, because my friend was gonna be hurt, so I yell at the bloke and hit him.” Tristan holds up his left hand for emphasis, knuckles bandaged in white gauze. “He turns to face me and I see that it’s Jason, and he looks like he’s on something, pupils’re are blown up and he’s pale as anything.

“He makes a swipe at me, I catch his arm and make him let go of the knife n’… I just start hitting him.” McCune offers no response, simply watching and waiting. “He goes down and I tell him to stay down, then I grab Lance and we book it back to The Stash. He waits in his room, I go get the girls, and we head to the receptionist, who calls you, and here we are.”

“And here we are.” McCune repeats, frowning in thought.

“And you’re very sure it was Jason Wallace?”

“Yeah.”

McCune sighs. Her steepled fingers collapse and clasp together as she sits forward, elbows on knees. She looks at both of them.

“Right, I’ll have someone bring in Mr Wallace and we’ll have ourselves a wee chat. If what youse have said is accurate, then two other candidates are either still in that alleyway or waiting for treatment at an emergency room. I’ve got some contacts at Massachusetts General and Boston PD. We’ll see if they find anyone with the injuries you describe.

“For now, Lance, I’m having Instructor Ming keep guard of your room. Best thing for you right now, for both of you,” McCune looks to Tristan, pointedly. “Is rest.”

* * *

The last thing Tristan wants to do is sleep. His fingertips pulse with a white-hot rage and he feels like he’s about to race a marathon. He can’t stop thinking back to the alleyway, to holding Jason prone and about what he should have done instead of scare him.

“Should’ve broken that fucker’s arm.” He growls to the dark ceiling. He should have made Jason open his mouth on the curb, and stomped down on his head. Tristan realises, with reluctance, that this line of thinking will only serve to make him more angry, more violent.

He remembers his first real fight, not some schoolyard scuffle between boys. He’d been working for his uncle at the time, flipping houses. There had been a crash and then screaming in the house across from the one they’d been working on. Tristan had sprinted there from where he was painting fences to find blood spattered up the wall from where an angry ex-boyfriend had smashed a woman’s head into the wall. Acting on instinct, Tristan lunged and fought the man. He remembers the awful screaming and wanting to _hurt_ that man, to take it too far because he deserved it.

Tristan tries to ignore those thoughts, instead focusing on the relief that Lance wasn’t hurt, or worse.

After half an hour of fruitlessly pursuing sleep, Tristan sighs and scrubs at his face. His injured hand burns from the movement. Tristan pushes himself out of bed and out of his dorm. The kitchen is quiet in its emptiness, hobs and countertops carefully scrubbed. Tristan ignores Ming watching him boil a kettle and prepare two mugs of tea, one earl grey and the other chai. He isn’t sure if Lance takes milk in his tea, hazarding a splash as a guess.

Ming lets Tristan in, looking at the two steaming mugs with a nod of approval. Inside, Lance has a lamp turned on. He sits up straight, back resting against the wall behind his bed. Lance takes off his headphones when he sees Tristan, eyes widening.

“Hey, man, what’re you doing here?”

Tristan shrugs, holding out the mug of earl grey.

“Couldn’t sleep, figured you couldn’t either.”

Lance takes the mug with a bitter laugh.

“Yeah, you could say that.”

Tristan grunts, taking a seat beside Lance. They stare out Lance’s window, sipping their tea. Jesse’s portrait of Lance stares at the wall between them. Tristan watches Lance out the corner of his eye. His face has a ghostly pallor, purple smudges under his eyes all the more apparent. Lance clutches the mug and Tristan has a feeling it isn’t for the warmth, but to stop his hands from shaking. Tristan exhale sharply.

“Right, neither of us are gonna get any sleep anyways. Turn up the volume and put the headphones between us, I’m listening too.”  
  


“Huh?”  
  


“I could really go for a distraction, and your mixtape might just be that. But you stink, so we’re not sharing headphones. Lay down with it between us, instead.”

Lance looks at him blankly. He blinks and complies, both men laying down on the sheet to look up at the ceiling.

_Moonshadow_ by Cat Stevens plays softly from Lance’s mp3 player. Tristan focuses on his breathing, on the warmth from his mug, and lets the gnashing creature in his head fall asleep.

The black becomes blue becomes yellow, casting out the fear and bringing a new day. Cups of tea are drained and a quiet _thank you_ floats upwards. Tristan grunts sleepily, knowing Lance would have done the same for him. Now, they just have to get through today.

* * *

“You know why you’re here, Jason.”

It took less than ten minutes to track down the youngest of the Wallace clan. He was stumbling down a street, clutching his side. McCune is almost impressed by the damage McFord had done, begrudgingly attributing it to Gila’s training methods. McCune may not agree with them; but she knows it’s damn effective at making efficient, deadly fighters, and she can’t help but respect the younger woman for it. 

Ming had prodded at Jason as he was being treated for a sprained wrist, facial contusions, and cracked ribs. In the beginning, Jason was reticent to tell the truth. Then Ming lied, telling him his friends were pinning the blame on him, saying this was all his fault – even though they had yet to find the other two culprits. Jason became quickly enraged, much more willing to tell his side of the story.

Ming always was good at getting under people’s skin like that. McCune remembers how he was as a trainee, and then a junior agent. All sharp angles and cutting words.

It was more damning than anything, though. Apparently, they were going to teach Lance a lesson. From the knife they had taken off of him, McCune doubts it was anything pleasant. _How’d he get his hands on that without anyone knowing?_ Milosz was quickly sent to his room to confiscate any other weapons he might have smuggled into The Stash.

And now McCune herself was handling the interrogation in her office. Jason, freshly bandaged and tight with aggravation, hunches over in his seat. The first minute was spent in silence, McCune letting his head work against him as she stared. A thin sheen of sweat coats his forehead, shining in the light. McCune doesn’t know what high he’s coming off of, the blood tests have yet to come through, but he shivers in the warm office.

She isn’t happy with the situation she’s put in; ex-Director Wallace had contacted her at the beginning of the year, letting her know he intended to make a sizeable donation to the program, as a thanks for training his grandson into a proper HTUV special agent. But _only_ if Jason graduated.

On the other hand, Lance is one of their most promising candidates, and this incident could have ended with them losing a very good agent. Jason is underperforming and the performance board from Third Phase recommends he be dropped before the last week of Fourth – it doesn’t just root out the weaker candidate, it _breaks_ them.

McCune isn’t about to let nepotism infect HTUV, they need capable field agents. But she knows the program needs that money, as well.

“So?” Jason says, piercing the silence. “Are you going to say anything?”

McCune doesn’t blink. She steeples her fingers together on the desk, straightening in her seat.

“And what exactly do you want me to say, trainee Wallace.” While her face is emotionless, McCune’s voice drips with venom. “That you committed unprovoked, aggravated assault on a fellow trainee? That you admitted to smuggling a weapon into The Stash, a _safehouse_ , with intent to cause harm? That you’re high on drugs, even now?”  
  


“I- ”

“No, you will listen to me. The only reason I’m not having you arrested for assault, the possession of illegal substances, and dropped from this program is the fact that you’re Director Wallace’s grandson. He has invested millions into you, and all you’ve done to show for it is make an embarrassment out of your family.

“I am giving you a second chance, something no other candidate has been given. But from this point on, we are watching your every movement. You will not look at Lance Sterling, you will not breathe in his direction, or even be able to think about him without us knowing. One step out of line, Mister Wallace, and I’m dropping you, regardless of your heritage.”

There’s pause, Jason glares at the table.

“Have I made myself clear.”

“… yes.”

“Louder, boy. My hearing is not what it used to be.”

Her hearing’s fine, always has been.

“Yes, sir.”

“Better.” McCune straightens. “You are removed from the dorms, have lost access to the communal area, and are forbidden from leaving The Stash without an escort. Any breach in these restrictions and you are dropped. Instructor Milosz will take you to your new room at the staff accommodations. You’ve also been removed from the operator specialty - _do not give me that look_.” Jason’s eyes flick back to the table, not losing their snarl.

“You’ve been reassigned to communications, effective immediately.” Her voice is iron; unyielding and stern. McCune’s eyes skate over Jason’s trembling form, she sees his barely contained rage and feels a spark of irritation. What was he _thinking_?

As Jason is escorted out of her office, McCune lights a cigarette, having dropped cigars five years back after a scare with pneumonia. It was a redundant thing to do, but McCune thinks she deserves some bad habits. She looks down at the framed photo on her desk. Twenty-two men and women are lined up, all wearing dark blue jackets with black, satin silk shawl lapels. It had only just become an official organisation, separate from the newly formed CIA. No names are listed, just the date - 1949. She blows smoke out of her nose and stares at the droopy eyes and thin lips of her ex-partner.

_Lurgan, what has your family become?_ She wonders, closing her eyes and feeling her age for the first time in years. After pinching the bridge of her nose and staring at the knots in the wood, McCune finishes her cigarette, and makes a call.

* * *

The day after is tense and dreary, rain pelting down onto a grey city from grey clouds. Grey light shines into Jesse’s room as she sketches out a group composition, convincing the other three to model for her next piece and take their minds off of the present.

“How long’re we supposed to sit here, Jess?” Grouses Tristan, shifting in his seat. Jesse makes a noncommittal noise and flaps a hand at him, eyes quickly flicking between the three of them and the canvas.

“I’m hungry.” Says Lance.

“You’re always hungry.” Retorts Rachel, who had been sitting still with a straight back the entire time, hands neatly folded on her lap.

“So, it makes sense that I’m hungry now. Jesse, can we have a snack break?”

“Quiet, you, and stop moving. I can’t get your proportions right; your chin is _so_ long dude.” Lance pouts, rubbing at his chin. It’s not that long…

Tristan snickers.

“McFord, you are not one to talk with those satellite dishes taped to the sides of your head.”

“Hey!” He squawks. Jesse waves a finger at him.

“Shh. Art. Proportions. Stay still.” Jesse points at Rachel. “You’re fine, except you’re short.”

Rachel makes an incredulous expression. “Am not!”

“Tristan is a good ten inches taller than you, dude.”

Rachel looks conflicted as she peers up at Tristan, who pinches one his of earlobes self-consciously. Her expression crumples in realisation.

“Shit. I _am_ short.”

Jesse hums, blocking in shadows and making small swatches of skin tones for later reference, ignoring the new insecurities she’s awoken in her friends. They’ll get over it. Maybe.

Lance debates on whether or not facial hair will make his chin seem smaller. Maybe a goatee. Or a soul patch.

The rest of the day passes slowly, word getting out about what happened to Lance, some candidates avoiding his gaze and whispering to each other when they think he’s out of earshot. Others give him pitying looks, like he’s fragile. It grates on Lance’s nerves, he’s not some kid that needs protecting. The fact that he fought three people at once and came out of it with minimal injuries should be a testament to his skill.

Lance hunches his shoulders and ignores the other trainees, only leaving his room for food and ice packs. He’s more than happy when the underwater demolitions week begins, ready to prove himself again.

* * *

The Boston Main Channel is busy, the sleek undersides of boats streak by, leaving a trail of waves to fan out and disperse in its wake. A three-eyed fish limps along the sea floor, Lance politely ignores it, choosing to focus on picking his way underneath docks and around buoys until he reaches the designated harbour with his fellow candidates. Sometimes, the green sediment turns black as the enormous shadow of a cargo ship looms above, dark hulls dotted with barnacle stowaways. Lance can feel the buffeting of its enormous propellers even though he’s too far away to be hurt by them.

The Boston Harbour wasn’t always this clean. Once known as the harbour of shame, raw sewage, pesticides, PCBs and heavy metals would flow into the water without regulation, scaring away any beach goers from the area. When Boston was sued under the Clean Water Act of ’72 for failing to update sewage treatment systems, it was determined that action had to be taken to reverse the effects of pollution. A secondary treatment plant was built in ’97 to relieve the pressure on the other two, and a 9.5-mile tunnel meant to carry sewage out into the ocean is projected to be completed construction in the turn of the millennium.

There’s a couple dodgy looking flounders struggling by as Lance swims along, but there’s no burn of high chemical concentrations on his exposed skin and some patches of seaweed are even beginning to reclaim parts of the seabed. Lance wonders what it’ll look like in ten years, if the next president will actually stick to their promises; unlike Bush who’d pledged $6.5 billion to help with the clean up efforts, only to then cut over $120 million from the program after coming to office. Lance remembers his dad scoffing at the T.V. when the announcement was made, calling him a hypocrite and a liar.

Now, Lance watches a few scant bubbles drift up to the surface like little jellyfish amidst the blue waters, white rays of light catching in their globes. He turns to Rachel, signing for directions. Rachel points to the left side of the channel, where it bends and opens out past Castle Island. Lance drags his hand along the seafloor, dredging up sand and trash particulates. Rachel jabs his sides and shakes her head; Lance can see a shadow of a frown behind her mask and shrugs innocently.

Surfacing and pulling themselves up out of the water and onto a wooden dock, Frog stands waiting with a handful of candidates. She quickly looks over their gear before nodding and speaking into her walkie talkie, telling them to send the next batch in. When all candidates are standing on the deck at varying levels of dampness, Frog hefts up a strange disc the width of her chest.

“Right, good to see a couple familiar faces here – nice to know Gila didn’t scare too many of you away.” She holds the device out, one end sleek and flat with small teeth around its circumference. The other end is domed with handles on the side. The entire device is painted in mute colours, meant to be unnoticeable.

“Underwater demolitions is my specialty. Thermite, gunpowder, dynamite, PETN, plasma arcs, you name it and I’ve detonated it. Y’ever heard of the _Oceanum Ruptor_? No? Well of course you haven’t. If you did, Boston would’ve been wiped out by an artificial tsunami.” She smiles and Lance has a feeling Frog may have had something to do with that.

“Right now, I’ll teach you tykes how to both plant the explosives and not blow yourselves to shit from the ensuing shockwave and pressure bubble.” She gently sets the device on the ground, beckoning them near.

“Pay attention,” she starts to remove the dome, exposing inner mechanisms. “I won’t repeat myself, and I don’t know how legal it is to own written material on these types of bombs.”

The naval mines HTUV use are named after limpets, for their function. They strap to the front of their dive suits and, when the moment called for them, could attach to the side of a hull using powerful magnets along their bottoms. Their explosion depended on the water pressure to force the majority of the blast into the ship, breaching the hull and causing a bulkhead to fill with water. That way, a ship would be forced to stop and the agents could board during the chaos.

Some of the more expensive limpet mines held trackers and could be detonated remotely by the agent or HQ, while others had turbine timers – after a certain volume of water had passed through the turbine, the fuse would be lit and the explosives charged.

Frog shows them how to avoid anti-diver precautions that some groups would use to deter the planting of limpet mines. Since they use rebreathers, they produced less bubbles with each exhale, making them more difficult to detect. But thermal imaging, sonar and watchful patrolmen could still expose the divers mid-mission.

All someone needed to do was drop a concussion grenade off the side of the boat; the force of the shockwave being amplified by the water, resulting in the diver becoming concussed or killed by the impact, sinuses and lungs exploding in their bodies.

The candidates are taught to target the rudders, rudder posts, shafts and propellers of a ship, ripping away its steering and propulsion. The limpet mine is a strange weight against Lance’s chest, dragging him down in the water, so he has to inflate his BCD more than usual to keep his buoyancy neutral. The mines make small whining sounds as they engage and stick to the hull, teeth digging in and electromagnet engaging.

Climbing the hull of any boat, from dinghies to cargo ships, is tedious and oftentimes physically straining. Lance knows if Phase III hadn’t been so unforgiving in its conditioning, he wouldn’t be able to climb the sheer surface of a slick hull, armed with nothing but magnetic gauntlets that detach from the surface using a lever to push the magnet away from the metal. The gauntlets are unwieldly and heavy, sticking to inconvenient patches of the ship mid-movement. The fins of their neoprene suits fold up, exposing spikes meant to dig into the side of a ship, providing grip and support. 

Lance almost feels bad about messing up the shiny, white fibreglass hull of the _Monday, Monday_ , as he has to use spiked claws instead of the magnets. But he doesn’t scale it fast enough and has to start over; that remorse is quickly overtaken by grumbling and sore muscles.

* * *

They don’t go out very much after what happened that night in the alleyway. Sometimes the group would venture out into the city during the day, but they quietly burrow in their dorms when the sun goes down. Jesse manages to sneak a bottle of vodka into her room. Lance takes a cautious mouthful after he’d seen Tristan and Jesse knock back large mouthfuls. He immediately regrets it, coughing and sputtering the drink up onto Jesse’s floor to the sound of her cackling. Rachel shook her head and pushed a glass of water his way.

“Vodka’s disgusting anyways, Lance.” She remarked. “I don’t know how those hooligans can just chug it without crying.”

Tristan had hollered some half-drunk comment, but Lance was too focused on getting the taste of paint thinner out of his mouth.

* * *

An adventure to a second-hand bookstore was more than fruitful, Lance finding several history books that piqued his interest. As he re-joined his friends near the cash register, he took in what they had gotten. 

“Seriously, Tristan? Advanced robotics?”

“Seriously, Lance? The Bolshevik Uprising and Subsequent – oi! Stop moving and let me read the needlessly long title.”

It wasn’t just the robotics textbook, either; a book on mechanical engineering and a Brothers Grimm in its original German were also a part of his stack. Then again, Lance wasn’t one to talk, with his growing collection of history books. Rachel quickly ran over to the commotion, threatening them with a glare and a pointed finger. 

“You two will _not_ get us kicked out of the store. They have Ursula Le Guin!”

Jesse eventually ambled over to them, three paperbacks with paintings of buff men, in varying states of shirtless-ness, in loving embrace with a slim woman in a flowing dress as their front covers. Rachel looks at the books with a raised eyebrow.

“Never took you for a romance lover, Jesse.”

Jesse smirks. She holds up a book titled _The Many Passions of a Woman_.

“I _am_ a woman with many passions.”

Rachel sighs in that fondly disappointed way she always does.

* * *

Lance rarely sees Jason nowadays; flashes of his face appear during full-group lessons but never long enough to make him seem no more than a phantom. He seems to have a shadow, an imperious looking instructor who follows Jason throughout the day. He’d also been removed from the operator specialty and the dorms, according to Ming.

Lance would feel bad for the guy if he hadn’t tried to stab him in an alleyway. He wonders, with an edge of panic, what happened to the other two. He didn’t notice anyone dropping, but, then again, he didn’t notice Ramira drop until David had brought up the fact that she’d started working for him.

“He did _what_ to you? Holy fuck, Lance, are you alright?” Moira’s voice is a forceful whisper, barely containing her shock and anger. Lance hears someone shush in the background.

“I’m alright now, man. I don’t know, it was… it was kinda scary.” Lance trails off and he hears a waver in his voice. _There was a moment where I thought he’d actually try to kill me._ He licks the old scab on his lip without realising it, the taste of copper jolts him out of his reverie.

“At least your partner – I mean Tristan was there to help you.”

Lance tries to act surprised.

“My partner?”

“Shit. Pretend you didn’t hear that.”

Lance smirks.

“Someone’s getting some clearance at HQ. You got to read the predictions, I take it?”

Moira huffs.

“Maybe, to prepare me for the graduating year and fill me in on possible combinations. But for legal reasons, you heard nothing from me.”

Lance chuckles, rolling his eyes.

“Sure, sure.”

Moira clears her throat, keen on changing the subject.

“Have you told your dad?”

“No, of course not. He’s a worrier and it doesn’t help that the whole thing was completely out of his control.”

“Are you ever going to tell him?”

“I…” Lance groans. “Maybe, I don’t know yet.”

Moira sighs, she sounds like she’s going to impart wise old-lady knowledge, but voices rise in the background. She tells him that she has to go - someone’s trying to throw a grenade into a room full of methane gas. Lance hesitantly wishes her good luck.

* * *

Jesse, Rachel, and Tristan refuse to go out at night and Lance knows it’s because of him. He appreciates it, really, but aren’t they bored of staying in?

“Nah, mate, I’d rather keep an eye on you. You seem to attract trouble.”

Lance rolls his eyes but soldiers on.

“Sure, but what about your thing with that English guy?”

Tristan frowns.

“Thing?”

“I know you didn’t get that hickey from beating the shit out of Jason Wallace, is all I’m saying.”

Tristan goes bright red, sputtering out some excuse before retreating to his room.

“Oh, they totally had a thing.” Remarks Jesse, watching Tristan’s red ears disappear down the hallway.

“Don’t waste your time pointing out the obvious, Jess.” Murmurs Rachel, cradling a book in her lap.

Lance just hopes Tristan isn’t missing out on anything because of him.

* * *

Some hours later, Tristan stares at a number scrawled across a bar napkin and wonders if he’s awake at this time. If he’d bother with him.

Tristan sighs, shrinking in on himself. No, he probably wouldn’t. Tristan puts the napkin on his desk, out of sight, and tries to fall asleep, ignoring the block of lead in his chest.

* * *

Their first night swim is strangely exhilarating despite taking place in the same place as their normal dives. The waters are pitch black, the candidates depending on their night-vision goggles to pick up obstacles in a green-hued void.

Lance feels something grip his ankle and freaks out the normal amount, immediately twisting around while barking out a screech. Behind him, Tristan rolls in the water, clutching his sides laughing. Bastard.

When Frog shows them how to communicate via comms, Lance’s first words to Tristan are:

_Asshole._

And Tristan’s to Lance are:

_Huh?_

_You heard me._

_Aw, still in a twist over last night?_

_To reiterate: asshole._

_You’d do the same thing you bastard._

_Switch to the private channel if you two’re set on having a domestic. I’m teaching here._

* * *

On a Wednesday, when the candidates return from the water, sleek, black suitcases are perched on each of their beds. Upon opening, Lance finds a white poplin shirt and black bowtie neatly folded above a blue and black satin silk jacket, polished black oxfords, and black trousers. A huge grin erupts across Lance’s face and he rubs the lapel between his index finger and thumb. At the bottom of the suitcase is a paper leaflet on how to properly maintain the suit, Lance throws it on his nightstand, more focused on the actual suit and finally being able to put it on.

Lance struts out of his room, feeling the gentle press of the Cuben Fibre-wool blend against his torso. He’s never worn clothes so closely tailored to him before; Lance relishes in the feel of well made, perfectly fitting leather shoes and trousers that don’t slip down or hover too high up his ankle. He smirks, buttoning his jacket and smoothing out his lapels with a flourish. Walking into the common area, Lance hears a whistle.

“Lookin’ good, baby face!” Shouts Jesse, sitting on the couch in her own suit, thighs splayed out and arms stretched out along the top of the seat. She oozes an easy sort of power, face set in a half grin.

The common area is full of chatter, candidates rosy with pride in their new suits, carefully tailored to the individual. Their silhouettes now much more uniform and refined.

“Not too bad yourself.” Lance returns, sending Jesse a smirk and plopping down on the couch beside her.

Not too long after Lance had emerged from his room, Rachel appears from the hallway. The soles of her oxfords make faint clicking sounds over the din and she carries the bulky jacket with a confident grace.

“Shit, Rach! That actually looks good on you.” Smirks Jesse.

“Of course it does.” Replies Rachel with a sneer and an upturned nose, the façade breaks with her smile. She looks over her friends and their matching blue and black suits. “Hmm, well one of us has to change.” Jesse and Lance laugh, both moving to make space for her on the couch. Rachel sets herself down, unbuttoning the blazer as she does.

They wait for their last friend to emerge, Lance and Jesse chanting Tristan’s name while Rachel pretends to read, attention focused on Tristan’s door. Tristan emerges, all sharp lines and fluid motion. The suit fits well across his broad chest and shoulders, tapering down with the shape of his legs. The other three cheer enthusiastically, much to Tristan’s red-faced bewilderment.

“There he is! All dressed up for the occasion, too!” Chortles Lance, giving Tristan a thumbs up.

“I’d say it suits you!” Rachel elbows Jesse for the pun and Lance throws his head back, groaning. Tristan awkwardly fiddles with the buttons, shoulders hiking up as he walks towards them.

“Yeah, yeah. whatever.” He says, rolling of his shoulders like he’s hyperaware of the jacket’s weight. “S’ not like we’ll be doing anything in these until next week.”

“May as well break them in.” Shrugs Rachel.

“Aw, you’ve got practical applications for these in mind?” Starts Lance. “I’m only wearing this ‘cause I look good.” He winks and receives a chorus of scoffs and groans.

“Always the most humble man in the room, huh, Lance?” says Tristan, huffing a laugh. Lance shrugs, palm facing upward.

“You know me, Tris, I’m like a monk.” Jesse guffaws at that, and the four spend most of the evening peacocking around in their suits.

_Is it just me that thinks the collars are a bit tight?_

_It’s your freakishly thick neck, dude, this thing is comfortable._

_Hey, is that Xiao? Holy shit, he looks great in a suit._

_I’ve only ever seen the guy in baggy clothes, who knew he was so buff under all those layers._

_Is it just me, or do I look like a wine glass?_

_Ha! You do, too!_

_You’re hardly one to talk, martini boy._

_Man, if only Moira and Piotr could’ve been here to see the suits, they’d love this_

_Hey, if we graduate, we can show them off to them all the time._

_If? Nah, man, when._

_Awful cocky of you, there._

_Please don’t start this again, you’ve both been so well behaved with each other up until now._

* * *

Some of the week is spent in a site Beta classroom, learning how to calculate dive time at different depths, as water pressure compresses their oxygen reserves the further down one dives. Frog tells them of a time she was diving with three other agents, chasing a rogue agent in the Marianas Trench.

There was a base built into the side of a chasm, almost one-hundred meters below the surface. Thick pipes ran from there to a treatment plant that scrubbed the air of carbon and pumped recycled air back into the base. The rogue agent had been found guilty of colluding with foreign terrorists, something about cracking the ocean. When the agent fled after being confronted by Internal Affairs, the case was taken off their hands and handed to Frog, her partner, and two other field agents with the intention of apprehending the agent without killing him.

Only thing is, there wasn’t anything left _to_ apprehend when one of the high-pressure pipes burst. The force of the suction had pulled in the rogue agent and one of Frog’s people in the blink of an eye. It was no larger than the width of your palm

“One moment, we were in pursuit of the target, nearing their base. Then some idiot decides to launch some kind of projectile at the rogue, misses him, and hits the pipe. Next thing I know, there’s this… _crunchy whoosh_ sound and two bodies are dangling from a hole that couldn’t have been larger than eight inches in diameter.” Frog sighs, staring into the middle distance with an uncharacteristically somber look, remembering the sight of limp, blue fins drifting in the ocean, attached to a mangled torso.

“Have to admit it was one of the more grisly sights I’ve been subject to in my twenty odd years of service, but those agents knew what they were getting into when they got in the water. Missions go to shit, just have to be smart and tough enough to get out of it, so you can have a story to tell over drinks, instead of it being a part of your obituary. “

There’s an experimental self-propelled glider that an agent can use to ferry themselves across greater distances in short amounts of time. The turbine is temperamental, and the glider has issues with buoyancy - one minute the diver is trim, the next they’re suddenly ascending to the surface. Frog pats the machine with no small amount of fondness.

“The Manta here may not be field ready for a few years or so, but you trainees are lucky enough to test these things out, considering you lot are probably gonna be using them sooner or later.”

The Manta resembles its namesake with a large, flat body and black paint job. Two crescent wings connect to a bullet shaped body housing the electronics and turbine. There were two modes, one where one agent piloted The Manta with the throttle on the body, and one where it was remotely operated with any passengers clinging on to the wings as it moved. Frog wasn’t lying about the buoyancy being janky, but she forgot to mention that the throttle was very, very sensitive.

“Lance, fuck’s sake, stop launching that thing at me!”

“It keeps jolting forward and I lose my grip!”

* * *

The work of the week is arduous enough that the sudden appearance of the last day sucker-punches Lance. After hours of final dives, mine placements, hull climbs, Manta gliding, and safety drills, Frog stands in front of the candidates as they hose off their gear.

“Unsurprisingly, I didn’t have to drop any of you for poor performance. The underwater demolitions section is in that sweet spot of physical and mental demanding that it’s a walk in the park for a group of hardened candidates like you kids.

“You may not know it, but you’ve all grown a hell of a lot since we last saw each other in February. I see a lot of promising agents here.” She looks at the different forms of young adults in front of her, nodding.

“None of you better fuck up the last stretch of this training, I’ve got money on a couple of you racehorses and I’d like to collect!” There’s a muted chorus of laughter from the candidates and a muttering about who she’s bet on.

“Oh, definitely me.” Says Lance, holding a neoprene suit up so Tristan can hose it off.

“And what makes you think that, hotshot?” Asks Tristan with a raised brow.

“Out of all of these racehorses I’m obviously the best - ack, Tristan! – hey! - Stop that!”

Tristan laughs as he continues to point the hose at Lance’s face, who flails trying to divert the stream with the suit.

“Big words coming from the kid in front of a hose.”

Lance opens his mouth to remind Tristan _he isn’t a kid_ , but water gets up his nose he instead spends a good two minutes choking and sputtering.

* * *

The next day, at the beginning of the second segment, has the candidates fully suited up. They’re packed into the silver minivans that had picked them up from the airport, this time being taken out to Salem. The houses here are strangely uniform; pale, cream coloured boxes carefully sectioned off by lovingly maintained gardens. The vans drop them off at a construction site, high walls obstructing a concrete building that towers over the rest of the area.

Instructor Ming emerges from within, swinging a chain link gate open and propping it open with his leg, beckoning the candidates in.

Site Omega smells like sawdust and tar, the outside walls and concrete frame hiding a replicated cityscape. Lance sees platforms, ladders, and flat sections over ten meters above his head with gaps to jump between. A car and a motorcycle are parked in the shade of an overhanging building and rooms constructed from plywood and glass dot the structures.

In the middle of the strange building stands McCune, she’s surrounded by brick walls of varying heights, concrete blocks, stairs that lead to nowhere, and rails. As the candidates are lead to her, Lance feels a chill as the walk under the shadow of the buildings, the damp Autumn cold more apparent out of the morning sun.

“Good morning, candidates.” She starts. “You’re all looking quite sharp in your new suits.” She pauses, looking over the crowd of young adults, shifting and fidgeting to the press of strangely heavy material. “But there’s still a transition period from sparring in exercise gear to fighting in a suit.”

McCune gestures to the scattered structures around her with a grin.

“So, let’s begin.”

Getting the candidates used to moving fluidly in their new suits had first meant getting them accustomed to stretching and running in them. Lance feels ridiculous hugging his knees, on the dirt, in a suit that’s worth tens of thousands of dollars. They jog around the middle of the building, climb ladders, and do box jumps for most of the day. Two candidates are called out in alphabetical order to operate the vehicles, getting used to wearing the thick oxfords and maintaining manoeuvrability for shifting gears and braking.

Lance manages to stall for the first time in years because the tip of his shoe catches along the plastic covering above the clutch, and the strain of his trousers is uncomfortable as he straddles the bike. But like all things, he adapts and thrives. The suit stinks by the end, Lance is already dreading the proper, lengthy cleaning instructions for the suit that came with it.

The candidates are shown the basics of free running, how to wall climb and land safely should they ever have to run from or chase someone in an urban environment with lots of obstacles. It’s not too different from the gymnastics classes Lance has been taking, the only difference being he’s in a restrictive suit instead of a t-shirt and running shorts.

Maybe it’s because of his prior experience with gymnastics, or merely because Lance is naturally agile, but he takes to the free running faster than most of the candidates, moving on to the more advanced sets of techniques before the rest.

“Jesus mate, how’d you jump that high?” Tristan peers up into the sun where Lance sits on the top of a six-foot tall wall. Lance shrugs with a smug smile.

“What, you can’t get up here dude? It’s easy.” He drawls, leaning on his palm. Tristan rolls his eyes.

“Whatever. _Bloody Joey just jumpin’ up on every bloody thing_ …” He grumbles under his breath, walking back to a line in the dirt.

Tristan looks up at the wall, picking a brick to jump to before running at it. His left foot pushing off the ground while the right hikes up to gain purchase on the wall. His arms shoot up to grab at the top of the wall. Tristan grunts with the effort of heaving his body up, Lance pulling him by his elbows to help.

They sit at the top, overlooking the other candidates going through different free running exercises. Jesse vaults over a staircase while Rachel is out on the motorbike. A handful of other candidates also attempt the wall climbs on different structures, some just jumping face first into the bricks while others manage to hoist themselves up and over with no small amounts of cursing. Ming, Milosz and Denver, the communications instructor, circle the group, giving advice and pointers wherever they’re required.

“You ever done anything like this?” Asks Tristan.

“Hm? Nah, first time trying this stuff. You?”

Tristan chuckles. “I feel like it’s pretty obvious I’m not much of a runner and jumper, better suited for other spy shit.” Lance hums, nodding.

“What, spy shit like seducing random British dudes?”

Tristan elbows Lance. “It was one night and we didn’t even do much, bugger off.” Lance holds his hands up in surrender.

“Sure, sure. Did you at least get his number?”

“Yeah…”

“But you haven’t called him, huh?”

Tristan’s face twists up and he hunches in on himself, like he often does when anyone brings up his relationship with Maurice, or anything queer, really.

He doesn’t seem to be uncomfortable with queer people, or being queer. But when Jesse talks about ex-girlfriends or Lance jokes about being bi, he becomes small and hypervigilant. Like he’s afraid someone’s going to overhear them and try to hurt them in some way. Like it’s happened to him before.

Lance knows he’s lucky to have an accepting father, who’d sat him down when he was younger and told him that whoever Lance chose to love, he would accept with open arms. But he doesn’t know how to tell Tristan it’ll be alright, that they’ll be safe and they can talk about these things openly.

Lance decides not to continue their conversation, instead patting Tristan on the shoulder and vaulting down the wall to continue the exercises before one of their instructors chews them out for slacking.

* * *

The further the weeks progress, the higher up the candidates train. They run through drills with supressed handguns and carbine rifles in the plywood houses, going through checkpoints and ducking behind cover as they pick their way through the dark rooms. The instructors also drill them on how to conceal their weapons and draw them from their holsters without catching it on fabric.

An eventful day has the agents learning how to through their bowties in perfect arcs, so there’s a better chance of them catching it.

They’re shown the right way to jump through glass windows.

“I’d recommend going though feet first, but Milosz has been telling me you’re all being taught shoulder first, so _I guess_ we’ll be doing that instead.” Grumbles Ming before launching himself through a window, shoulder first. He covers his head with his arms and rolls before standing up without aid from his hands. He brushes off shards of glass, shaking it from his hair, and gives the candidates a thumbs up. “Alright, who’s up first?”

* * *

Lance’s ego has been larger than normal since beginning the second segment, encouragement from instructors and his own success making it unbearably inflated. Of course, such pride comes before the fall.

Said fall being a solid punch to his face from Jesse.

Lance reels back with a hiss. Even though they’re wearing boxing gloves, the hit still leaves a thudding pain along his cheek.

“Jesus, woman! Are you trying to kill me?”

Jesse shrugs innocently.

“You asked _so nicely_ to spar with me, I may as well give what’s coming to you.”

Lance rolls his eyes before regaining his fighting stance. To the side of the room, Tristan watches with an ever growing grin and Rachel takes the occasional photograph.

“Smile for the camera, Lance!” Shouts Tristan, as Jesse and Lance clash again. Lance tries to catch her out with a feinted right jab, but Jesse latches onto his glove, pulls him near to her chest, trapping his arm, and battering him with her free hand. Rachel takes a picture.

Lance should have known Jesse had something up her sleeve when she specified the type of sparring with a crooked grin and mischievous look in her eye. But Lance was still high on ego to really care. Now, though, he begins to regret his decisions when Jesse gets him in a headlock and gives him a clumsy noogie with her glove. Rachel takes another picture.

“Rachel – ack – I would really – hey – _appreciate it_ – get off – if you would stop documenting this so – fuck – thoroughly!” Lance rips himself from Jesse’s grasp and calls for a time out.

“Lance, I am but the unbiased eye of history. Now get back in that headlock I don’t think I really captured the essence of it.” Rachel says, flapping the developing film as she does.

Tristan rolls his shoulders, still unused to moving in the suit, or maybe it’s just habit.

“Alright, my turn.” He says, grabbing the boxing gloves from Lance and strapping them on. Lance limps to Rachel, shucking off his jacket. Tristan and Jesse square up, eyes locked. They share an excited smirk. Then they clash.

Lance has to admit, watching people who know how to fight is enthralling. Tristan and Jesse are brawlers, more suited to being rooted in one spot and letting their natural strength, and the resilience to take multiple hits, work for them. Their spar is quiet but for the rushed exhale of air with each punch and the smack of boxing gloves against skin. 

Tristan ducks under Jesse’s barrage of hits, twisting away and getting onto his toes before surging forward with a heavy, left-handed punch. Jesse sucks in a breath, rooting herself and blocking Tristan’s hit with her forearms. He quickly follows up with a right hook to her abdomen and starts pummelling her arms to wear her down.

Lance can see Jesse’s frown from the other side of the room, but he doesn’t know if it’s from pain or concentration. He notices that Rachel is watching intently, the camera forgotten by her lap.

Tristan eases off, returning to the middle of the room and keeping on the balls of his feet. Jesse eases her guard and watches Tristan, panting. She rolls her shoulders and smacks her gloves together before rushing to greet him.

The fight ends a minute or so later, neither boxer managing to get a leg up on the other. Jesse corners Tristan in the side of the room, forcing him to adopt the same position she had not too long ago. Tristan manages to wind Jesse with a well-timed left jab. Jesse hits Tristan’s head and it smacks off the wall with a dull thud, Tristan responds in kind by rushing Jesse, hooking both arms under hers and sending savage jabs down her side and at her kidneys.

Soon, both simply stand there, panting. Jesse forces herself to stand straight, rubbing her back with a wince. Tristan leans over with his hands on his knees, breathing heavily. The white of their suits are drenched and the room stinks of sweat.

They look up at each other and let out quick huffs of laughter. Jesse holds out her glove and Tristan bumps it with her own. They limp to where Rachel and Lance are watching.

“Get any pictures there, Rach?” Asks Jesse, a thin sheen of sweat covering her face, highlighting her high cheekbones and round lips. Rachel looks over the two of them with, what Lance swears is, a blush.

“Uh…” She says, looking like a fish out of water; eyes wide and blinking rapidly, mouth opening and closing.

“You good there, Rachel?” Asks Tristan, wiping back sweaty strands of hair from his forehead, showing off his strong nose and deep-blue eyes.

“Uhh…” The fish has drowned on dry land now.

Lance almost feels bad not interjecting and helping Rachel out, but vengeance is a dish best served cold.

* * *

“And do you know if they found the other two?” Piotr’s voice is just audible above the sounds of welding and the screech of metal being cut. They must be fixing that Tern jet Moira had told him about.

The mission had involved three pairs of field agents being flown into the centre of the Northeast Greenland National Park to infiltrate, and clear out, a weapons lab developing a strange ‘laser drill’. Of course, the drill was much larger than they originally thought and also not a drill, shooting out the propeller and engine of their left wing with a powerful plasma arc.

They’d made an emergency landing in the Greenland Sea, the agent teams heading to Greenland to continue their mission while the Tern employees waited for pickup. They were still waiting to hear back from the agents, who went dark after heading for the coast.

Tristan sighs.

“There hasn’t been any official announcements and I haven’t had the chance to ask any of the instructors. But someone was dropped last week for a, and I quote, _belated performance board recommendation_. Maybe it was a subtle way of getting rid of ‘em?”

Piotr makes a humming sound, or Tristan thinks he does.

“Hopefully this won’t come back to bite you and Lance in the ass. What happened with that Jason man, the one who tried to stab him?”

“Oh yeah.” Tristan growls. “ _Him_. He’s still here. Been real subdued though, and I never see him without some suit shadowing him, so at least there’s that.”

Piotr makes a sound of agreement, and they continue to talk about the AI trials in self-driving cars. It’s a long way to go before it can be formally proposed to Director Jenkins for official funding and research, but Piotr seems hopeful about its chances.

“Right now we’re running the AI through these basic three dimensional maps for reinforcement learning, haven’t gotten much further than accelerating and decelerating down a straight road. Lots of code to fix and alter and rewrite, only to realise it was right the first time around. Rough going and tedious, but I enjoy the challenge.”

Tristan chuckles fondly. “See? Knew you’d love working there.” Piotr laughs in agreement. “Keep me updated, Pete. In the meantime, it sounds like you’ve gotta help out with repairs.”

  
  
Piotr lets out a long, tired groan.

“I’m supposed to be studying for my masters, but they’ve called in everyone capable for quick repairs on this Tern plane. It’s fucking pandemonium so far.”

In the background, Tristan hears a loud crash. Piotr’s voice is thrown as he turns to yell instructions in English and curses in Russian, hanging up the phone as he does so.

Tristan wishes good luck to an empty line.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof a lot happened there lmao, sorry for the long chapter, the next ones are a lot shorter so this one is making up for it. 
> 
> jesse and tristan: beat the shit out of each other like bros  
> rachel: *has her bi awakening*  
> lance: sucks 2 be u lmao
> 
> idk if this is because i live in ireland but i've hanged out with people who drink vodka straight from the bottle without mixers Like Savages
> 
> also bush will Not escape criticism, not even in the will smith pigeon movie fanfiction


	20. Phase IV - (part v)

The week before the Urban Environment Adaptation Test has the candidates on the roofs of the fake cityscape, teaching them how to safely traverse the high up structures. They leap across meter long gaps with a fifteen-meter plunge, vault over ducts and air conditioning units, make careful, precise jumps over thin rails, and learn how to slide down ladders and safely jump down onto lower platforms. 

A jolt sparks through Lance’s legs as he drops onto the landing of a metal stairwell. The structure wobbles uncertainly and Lance makes the mistake of looking down as he catches himself on the guardrail.

“Oh, that drop looks further than I remember.” He mutters, scrambling back up the ladder.

* * *

Soon, the candidates have to chase the instructors, who tie bandanas onto their arms. The candidates are tasked with getting close enough to the instructors so they can yank it off. After five minutes of trying to catch Milosz, who is very agile for a woman her size, Lance realises that that might be easier said than done.

“Sterling I’m getting bored, hurry up and get the damn bandana.” She calls from the other side of the gap.

It soon becomes races between the candidates, seeing who can complete a full lap of the cityscape. Next up is Tristan and Lance, with Jesse and Rachel standing behind them as they wait for the signal. As Jesse stares at the backs of Tristan and Lance, still smarting from her spar with Tristan, she makes a realisation. A truly shocking one.

“Tristan, don’t freak out, but Lance is taller than you.” She whispers, loudly. It has the reaction Jesse was looking for as Tristan whips around at breakneck speeds.

_“What!”_

The signal for their race to starts and Lance leaves a sputtering Tristan in the dust. Tristan shouts _shit_ from the rooftops and scrambles to catch up, Jesse cackling as he does so. Rachel smacks her arm, hiding a lingering smile.

“That was extremely cruel of you. That poor man.”

  
  
“Did you know Lance was taller?”

“I realised it during underwater demolitions, almost gave me a heart attack.”

“At least you and Tristan can roil in the pain of being short together.”

“He’s still taller than you, jackass.”

“Eh, semantics.”

* * *

The end of the day comes and back in the dorms Tristan is obviously still thinking about what Jesse had told him.

“No fucking way. Measure again.”

Rachel rolls her eyes and steps away from the doorframe.

“This is the third time you’ve had us measure you two. The ground isn’t uneven, you’re both barefoot –“  
  


“But-“

“ _And I am not measuring you wrong_. Lance is exactly an inch taller than you: he’s six-two, you’re six-one. And that’s final.” She lets the measuring tape retract into the casing with a flourish, stalking to the kitchen for dinner.

Tristan glares at the pencil marks she made on the doorframe like they're to blame for these events.

“I can’t believe this.”

Lance sidles up to Tristan, who feels the smugness emanating off of him.

“The truth hurts, man, we all just have to live by it.”

Tristan opens his mouth to start yelling, but then Jesse pushes in between then with a sharpie in hand.

“Excuse me, gentlemen.”

Before anyone (Tristan) can do anything, Jesse writes over the pencil scratches with the pen. Lance holds back a kicking Tristan as Jesse writes in **L Sterling, 6’2** and **T McFord, 6’1 (short)**.

“You’re all bastards and I hope you fall off the platforms tomorrow!” He yells, over their laughing.

* * *

The Urban Environment Adaptation test takes place over the course of five days. All spent at site Omega. The first day focused on their driving skills and being able to pursue their instructors without being detected, and without losing sight of them. They’d also gone through some of the lower-level plywood rooms, working in teams of two to pick their way through pitch black rooms, suppressed Beretta M9s in hand.

The second day had the candidates on the highest levels, first to display their speed and agility on a timed obstacle course, and then they had to go through a live fire drill on the platforms. Lance’s stomach falls when he’s paired with Jason, and as they jump, balance, and shuffle their ways across the wobbling platforms and thin railings, debris like shattered glass, nails and small rocks are dropped down by other instructors on the roof. On top of all that, they have to shoot at human-shaped targets with pinpoint accuracy or risk being dropped.

“You’d think they actually want us to get tetanus or something.” Mutters Lance, shielding his head from the pelting as he braces to jump through a window, onto another platform. He rolls, one hand catching himself with the other still over him. He stands, peering over the edge and waiting for Jason.

And then Lance feels a rough shove to his shoulder, and then his stomach jumps into his throat as he lurches over the edge, staring down a twenty-meter drop.

An instinctual yell punches its way out of Lance’s throat and he feels himself fall. Twisting wildly, his hands snatch out and grabs a fistful of rough fabric. He pulls towards himself, panicking and trying to heave himself away from the edge.

The weight of another person surges forward, startled from the speed of Lance’s movement. He throws his weight to the side, grasping for a handrail. Lance’s foot slips off the edge, taken by the momentum of the other person’s weight. Lance clings to the rail, praying to something that it stays strong.

He hears a scream. Then an impact.

Lance’s blood pulsing in his ears drowns out the sounds of yells and shrieks from other people; his only focus on clawing his way back onto the walkway. His legs dangle uselessly as his sweaty fingers grip onto the metal grid floor of the platform.

When his whole body is safely on the surface, with not even his feet over the edge, Lance can do nothing more than stare blank at the ground and let the realisation sink in that someone tried to push him to his death.

And that he just returned the favour.

* * *

Jason is born to Brynn and Dahlia Wallace on a sunny spring morning in 1977. The birth was quick and he was a healthy baby, screaming loudly as the nurses cleaned and weighed him. As Dahlia and Brynn held their newly swaddled child near, they knew he was meant for great things.

_“You will be held to the highest of standards here, Mr Wallace. Blue Marsh Compound is not merciful to weak and mediocre candidates. You will be treated no different than the rest of them, and I expect you to do as well as your grandfather seems to think you can.”_

_“Yes, Instructor Wells.”_

At age five, Jason is an only child, growing up in a large Tudor-style mansion in Washington DC. His mother stays at home while his father works for HTUV as a special agent. Jason loves when his dad comes home, because that means he can hear all the stories about his job. He sits at the dinner table, food half forgotten and face open in rapt attention as Brynn recalls the most recent mission. Jason, like most kids, decides he wants to be just like his dad.

“You can be the supervillain and I’ll be the super spy.”

“But I wanna be the spy this time, Jason, you’re always the spy!”

“Yeah ‘cause that’s what I’m gonna be when I get older.”

“That’s a made up job, my dad told me so.”

“You dad’s a liar ‘cause my dad and my grandpa were both spies and that’s what I’m gonna be!”

“Don’t be stupid, Jason, everyone knows spies aren’t a real thing.”

“Are too!”

_“Holy shit, so your granddad lead this organisation?”_

_“Yeah, my dad was agent too. This line of work is in my blood.”_

_“Oh, uh, cool.”_

Jason first meets his grandfather during a family gathering at Christmas. They drove for hours out into New England, where thick orange trees crept into the rivers and the coast spat thick plumes of fog onto the land. His grandfather’s estate sprawls into a wooded area, the enormous brick and iron house standing proud in the mist. All his family was there, too, and Jason was excited for how many presents he was gonna get.

There’s other adults there that Jason doesn’t recognise, like a lady that talks like grandpa and some guy in a grey suit. They look at him with piercing eyes and Jason hunches into his shoulders as they talk about him like he isn’t there.

“Hm. So this is the Wallace kid.” Says the woman.

“Certainly takes after Lurgan.” Replies the man. They look at him for longer, like they expect Jason to talk to them. When he stays quiet, they return to their grim faced, adult conversations and he quickly scurries away.

He doesn’t like his other cousins because they’re all younger than him and they just follow him around. Jason hides by ducking into random rooms, throwing thick oak doors open and carefully latching it shut so his cousins don’t hear him.

“And what would a fine young lad like yerself be doing, snooping around an old man’s home?” Croaks a wet-sounding voice. Jason jumps in his skin, hands clenching around the wrought iron door handle. Lurgan Wallace was old even then, all liver spots and white hair. In a rough hand, Lurgan clutches an eagle-headed cane made from cherry wood. Jason murmurs out that he was just looking around.

“Curious, aye? Good. You’d make a fine spy putting your nose into places it shouldn’t be.” His droopy, grey eyes lift at the corners, the only indicators of the eldest Wallace’s mirth. Jason watches his grandfather, nodding mutely before slinking back out of the room. He’s caught by one of his cousins, who bullies him into playing hide and seek with them. His grandfather’s words echo in his mind as he finds a hiding place in a dusty old room with the furniture covered in white sheets.

_“Thirtieth? What kind of a result is that. Honestly, Jason, it’s like you don’t even care about this.”_

_“I-“_

_“At least you’re an operator, it’s the only specialisation that matters out of the three. What’s the point of comms and engineering if they’re just going to be field agents?”_

Jason is eleven when he get into his first fist fight with some boy from his private school who’d tried to accuse his dad of being a liar, that he was making his job up. Jason gets his white school shirt dirty from when he pushed the other boy into the mud, smacking him until he cried uncle, and his mom got angry at him for making a mess. His dad, who was home again, had looked up from his newspaper with that unreadable gaze. Brynn raised an eyebrow at Jason as Dahlia fussed over him.

“Did you win?”

“Yes.”

“Good. An agent doesn’t lose fights.” Brynn returns to his newspaper.

_“It looks like you’ve been having a difficult time acclimating to Second Phase.”_

_“Who are you?”_

_“Someone who can help.”_

_“… What can you do?”_

_“Meet me in Johnson’s terrarium after lights out. I have something you may be interested in.”_

_“This is an experimental performance enhancer. The patch lays flat on your skin and lets the compound be absorbed into the bloodstream.”_

_“What does it do?”_

_“Oh, many intricate biochemical alterations; increases adrenal gland activity, numbs you to pain, sharpens reflexes. Makes you stronger, faster. Better than HTUV’s golden child: Lance Sterling.”_

_“He’s not… He can’t be, he’s nobody.”_

_“A nobody who has charmed most, if not all, of the instructors into being lenient with him when he fails. Have you seen the way he looks at you? Like you’re nothing, like you’re no better than the rest of them. Prove to him that you’re better, that you deserve the favouritism he’s been relishing for weeks.”_

_“… Okay.”_

_"Why are you talking to me. It’s daylight, go back to your bunk.”_

_“This shit’s fucking up my eyes and I’m sweating like a pig!”_

_"That patch gives you an incredible physical and metabolic advantage against your opponents, increasing heartrate and respiration to cope with that change. You really didn’t expect side effects? There’s a price for everyone’s success, Jason. This is yours.”_

Jason is fifteen when his father takes him up to grandfather’s estate to hunt deer. He’s never used a gun before, but he has to learn if he’s going to be a good agent. Lurgan is old in a timeless way: he doesn’t seem to age but Jason struggles to imagine him younger. Him and Lurgan and Brynn have the same droopy, grey eyes that pierce people to corkboards like they’re insects. He’s shown how to handle the rifle, loading a bullet into the chamber and aiming down the iron sights, aligning with the deer’s ribcage. Jason falters when it looks up from grazing, great big eyes looking straight at him.

“I don’t wanna hurt it…”

“Be a man and shoot the bloody deer, Jason.” Chides Brynn. Lurgan watches the tremble of Jason’s arms with a sour expression.

Jason looks back and swallows, but the deer has jolted away, spooked by Brynn’s voice.

“Oh good on you, son.” Drawls Lurgan. “Scaring both the deer and your child. Jason, I know you don’t want to prolong the thing’s suffering, and it’s good that you don’t. But you had a perfect shot there, a good agent never shies away from those sorts of things. Remember that.”

Jason swallows dryly, looking at his grandfather and feeling his father’s annoyed stare towards the two of them. Jason nods and prepares himself to kill a deer. They never show. The car ride back to home is tense and quiet.

Maybe it's then he realises he may not be able to make his father proud.

_“You think I give a flying fuck who your family are? I’m here to train actual agents, not some pampered child waiting to get blown up by their own grenade because mummy isn’t there to hold their fucking hand._

_“You failed this certificate because you weren’t good enough. Try again on the last week and we’ll see if there’s still a spot for you in Boston.”_

_“… Yes sir.”_

_“Get out of my office, and leave Sterling be. It’s not his fault you’re like this.”_

Jason never gets the chance. One afternoon he’s called into the office at school. There, two women in blue and black suits look at Jason with matching, grim expressions that make him feel nauseous.

“What’s wrong? Who are you?”

“Jason… " Starts one, but her voice chokes up and she winces.

“There’s been an accident, we’d like you to come with us back to your house.” The other one smoothly interjects.

When they get back to the house, his dad’s partner hands him his father’s pocket watch with their remaining arm. The watch’s face is decimated by a fifty-calibre bullet impact.

Brynn Quinten Wallace’s star is laid five days later, a family photo smiling back at Jason as it’s smothered by shadows. He looks up at the inscription on the thick granite slab above; All Men’s Souls Are Immortal, But the Souls of The Righteous Are Immortal and Divine. He feels his eyes burn with fresh tears and he turns into his mom for comfort. Jason feels a thick hand clasp around his shoulder.

“You’re the man of the house now, grandson. Make your father proud.”

_“And how has your progress been in Third Phase, Jason?”_

_“… It’s been fine. Difficult but I’m pushing through.”_

_“Muscle it down, Jason. All good agents know when to chomp at the bit and get shit done.”_

Jason is twenty-one and he feels a deep kind of anger. Biting iron barbs take root in his ribcage, exacerbated by the patches. He knows he got through Third Phase because of it, an oil slick of a man tracking his every movement.

One day, a knife is pressed into his palm, followed by an order: _teach him a lesson_. The next, the man who put it in his hand is assigned as his chaperone. He tells Jason it’s all going according to plan. Jason’s bruised face and torso twinge in protest. The blood test had shown up clean – synthetic drugs seem to fly under the radar. He wipes the sweat off his forehead and takes the patch from the man.

The underwater demolitions kicked his ass, the patch not working underwater. His arms shook weakly as he forced himself up the boats and clung to The Manta. His breath never seeming to catch up to his racing heartbeat.

“Here, use this tank instead. It contains a higher percentage of oxygen and will help with your performance.”

"Thank you."

"Remember, you don't know me, you don't know anything."

He doesn't notice concerned looks from Frog; she'd say she's more perceptive than other agents because of her work in murky waters, but maybe Frog is just more empathetic than other agents. These candidates are kids, and this one is hurt and alone. Asking him if he is alright only garners a glare that would be threatening if his eyes weren't bloodshot and struggled to focus on her. Asking McCune or Ming or Milosz or Denver or the medics is a dead end, none of them tell her anything outside of _did you hear what he tried to do to Lance Sterling? That guy's fucked up._

Frog resolves to talk with Jason after Phase IV is over, be it in person or by phone. He might need someone who isn't a Wallace.

The suit feels right. _It does._ Jason knows he’s earned it. He knows someone who hasn’t and his fists clench unconsciously at the thought of Sterling’s smug smirk, how he just swans through the Phases, unbothered by the harshness of the challenges.

He thinks with a twinging desperation: Why couldn't that be him? 

“If you wish to be a good agent, then finish the job. Lance Sterling is a threat to your livelihood, your heritage. Are you just going to stand by while he takes your glory? Your father would be rolling in his grave if he could see this.”

That plants something in Jason’s head. Puts the shadow of violence in between the cracks of his curled fingers.

Their Urban Environment Adaptation test is straining, utilising both their cunning and physical prowess. They’re up high on the platforms, shattered glass rains down on them and simulated sounds of combat play from speakers.

Jason and Lance stand on a platform, waiting for the cue to jump across to the other. Jason’s eyes flick down to the ground, and back to Lance’s back where he’s scanning the area and muttering to himself – too focused on the task at hand to notice Jason creep forward.

Adrenaline courses through his veins and Jason takes his chance to finally end this, and claim his rightful position as a field agent. Nudge in the right direction and it’s all over.

He didn’t realise Lance _earned_ his place here, that what all the instructor say about him is true. Not until Lance snaps around with uncanny speed and grabs a fistful of Jason’s blazer. Jason tries to rip out of his grip and catch his balance, but the tip of his shoe catches on the edge of the platform.

As they both fall, only Lance has the chance to catch himself.

Jason feels himself plummet through the air like he’s weightless. Until he isn’t. Jason meets the unforgiving concrete ground with a crack that echoes in his skull in fleshy sonance. The world goes bright white and all the air is forced from his lungs. The last thing Jason sees is the wide-eyed look of shock erupting across Lance’s features.

As Jason’s vision goes black, he realises he can’t feel his legs.

* * *

There’s screaming, the whine of an ambulance, instructors yelling for order. Lance stares down at Jason’s mangled body with wide eyes, fingers aching from his grip on the metal.

He blinks and he’s being led off the lowered platform.

He blinks and someone’s wrapping a blanket around his shoulders, his friends clamouring around him with concerned expressions.

He blinks and he’s sitting in the clinic, feeling words batter his ear drums, but never being able to hear them.

He blinks and McCune is there, telling him something. On instinct, Lance nods along to her inflections. The image of Jason falling, Jason crumpling, playing over and over in his head.

He blinks and now he’s in his room, on his bed. Lance closes his eyes and lets the miasma finally roll over him.

His hands feel cold.

* * *

McCune has been awake for twenty-eight hours now; constantly jumping between the three sites, trying to get a handle on this fucking nightmare has not done wonders for her disposition.

The Urban Environment Adaptation Test is perilous, everyone knows that. But it’s been years since an accident of this calibre has happened. Jason Wallace is in critical condition at Massachusetts General, shattered pelvis, dislocated shoulder, broken collar bone, ruptured bladder, liver and spleen, broken spine, severe nerve damage with possible paralysis.

There’s cameras at site Omega, for analysis purposes of candidates following the completion of the test. But now it’ll have to be used as evidence. McCune watches the grainy film for a fourth time this hour, mentally preparing a statement to send to Joy, to send to a legal representative, because there’s no way the Wallaces won’t pursue legal action.

_Jason, noticeably lighter than him, creeps up to Lance. Jason pushes him over a fifteen-foot drop. Lance instinctually reaches out and manages to drag Jason over the edge. Lance grabs hold of the railing, Jason falls out of frame, arms pinwheeling. Lance drags himself up onto the platform._

There had been half the candidate year group watching, waiting their turn for the test. All are witnesses, and McCune’s instructors are taking their statements.

The phone rings. McCune picks up on the first dial tone.

“What.”

“Saoirse when were you going to tell me my grandson is in critical fucking care.”

“Well now I don’t need to, considering you fucking called me first, Lurgan.”

“You listen here- “

“I will _personally_ send you the seventeen witness testimonies and video evidence of Jason Wallace attempting to commit homicide.” The line falls quiet and McCune takes that as a cue to continue. “Do not come to me all high and mighty when you’ve been raising a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Jason has been antagonising Lance Sterling for several months now, and as I had told you, this is not his first attempt at grievous bodily harm.

“You know the Urban Environment Adaptation Test is dangerous, you _approved_ of it. From the height he fell, Jason is lucky to be alive. Lurgan, you’ve already lost your son, and Jason is all that’s left of Brynn. This isn’t the time to start setting fires, he’s hurt and he needs his family.” McCune knows her voice is taking on a desperate tone, but at this point she just wants things to be over so the candidates can move on and she won't be plagued by the bloated phantom wearing her ex-partner's face. 

Lurgan is quiet long after McCune is finished, she only knows he’s still on the line through his heavy breathing.

“Get him a job at HTUV and have Director Jenkins pay for his hospital bills, and I won’t sue the program for every penny it owns.”

McCune doesn't like the tone he's decided to take with the woman who has saved his life on multiple occasions.

“I’ll get him the job but you will pay the medical charges. If not, I’m using this evidence to have Jason arrested for the myriad of crimes he is guilty for. You don’t want your family’s good name ruined by a scandal. Not after all these decades building it up from nothing, now, do you?”

“… Fine. You know my address. Send the bills there.”

McCune hears his grumbling curses and pretends not to hear it, the ball of tension in her gut finally loosening. She hang up and releases a heavy sigh, planning for the next day and getting ready to finish the remaining candidates’ training. McCune starts by filling out a medical drop form in the youngest Wallace’s name, and sends Denver to keep an eye on him.

* * *

The test was extended by one day, Lance spending half of it in his room after running through the course proper with Jesse. He feels like a loose, dissociative mess throughout it, but no one falls and he isn’t dropped. Lance stares at the ceiling, the outline of a mangled body blazing in the ceiling with each blink.

Tristan coaxes Lance out of his room, to where Rachel and Jesse are in the common room. Jesse hands him a rice bowl with chicken teriyaki. Lance cradles it, letting the warmth seep out from the ceramic.

“How’re you feeling?” Asks Tristan.

“Like shit.”

“I heard Jason’s in hospital, he’s out of surgery and he’s in a coma now. But he’s alive, at least.” Adds Rachel, prodding at her food.

“So, that’s it for him, huh?” Says Jesse, brow furrowed. "The Wallace line of spies ends there."

“I didn’t see but I heard he tried to push you off a platform, Lance.”

“Yeah. He did.” Lance picks up the heavy fork, the sight of the rice grains making him feel nauseous.

“Jesus. I’m just relieved you’re alright, mate. Fuck what would’ve happened if he’d been successful?”

_I’d be dead._ “I don’t know.” Lance pokes at the food, turning it over and clutching the bowl with his free hand. His arms buzz with a phantom adrenaline, mind replaying those moments over and over with mounting panic.

“Let’s talk about something else.” Rachel suggests, staring at Lance’s hunched figure and distant stare.

As the conversation begins to wash over him, Lance chokes down the emotions roiling inside of him and tries to root himself in the present.

He even manages to smile at a jokes he just about hears over a buzzing white noise emanating from his skull.

“We’ve got three more days of this, too.”

“Shit. What else would they throw at us?”

“At this point, I have no idea. Maybe they’ll drug us again and make us fend for ourselves in the wilds of Boston.”

“Somehow, I feel like surviving Boston is more difficult than the bayou.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao get rekt jason


	21. Phase IV - (part vi)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note the warning change from implied/referenced torture to straight up torture, no one has fun here

The next day comes and Lance feels calmer, more present than the other two days. The candidates are once again shuttled off to site Omega, where McCune waits for them in the centre of the buildings. There’s a strange, tense air to the place that Lance attributes to the incident. He tries not to look at where Jason fell, for fear of seeing some kind of stain.

As the candidates line up, McCune begins to speak.

“The events of the last few days were no doubt traumatic.” Her voice rings out against the concrete and rebar. “But as agents we must continue in the face of tragedy and adversity. The Urban Environment Adaptation Test ends in three days.

“Within this time frame, all of you will be taken beneath site Omega, under the pretence that you are agents captured by the enemy. There, the bad guys will interrogate you for information. This interrogation resistance training will desensitise you to the realities of being held captive, and allow more time for rescue before you give in to their methods.”

  
  
Lance feels the presence of people behind him. Before he can turn back to look, he’s seized by multiple pairs of strong hands that hold him in place. McCune’s gaze drills into the struggling candidates.

“If you give in, or beg to stop, you will be dropped. By breaking, you are failing the mission. HTUV field agents have the most stressful job in the organisation – they cannot be weak. They must be like iron, the world depends on it.”

The sun sets on Boston, dark skies and hazy smog settling in the streets. The dying light casts a sinister shadow over McCune’s harsh features. The look on McCune’s face shouldn’t send shivers down Lance’s spine, it’s no different to her normal expression. But there’s something in the taut line of her mouth, in the set of her shoulders. Lance looks into McCune’s eyes and sees the dark, merciless gaze of shark that has caught the scent of blood.

“You’ve been fitted for your suits. Now, you _earn_ them.”

The remaining thirty-one trainees are pushed into the separate rooms of site Omega’s basement. There are two doors separating the cells from the outside world, both carefully soundproofed. The smell of concrete dust lines Lance’s nostrils and he rubs his wrists as he takes in the contents of the room.

A bucket. A wooden pallet. A security camera. Bare filament light bulb buzzing above. Lance makes his way to the pallet, balling his suit jacket up into a pillow. He squeezes his eyes shut to the sound of muffled, hushed murmurs from his fellow candidates. The light suddenly goes out after an unknown amount of time passes, plunging Lance into darkness.

Over intercoms, screams begin to cry out. Coupled with squelching and snapping sounds that make Lance nauseous. He curls into a ball and tries to block out the worst of it, already dreading what the rest of this training holds in store for them.

In a twisted sort of blessing, he has no time to think about Jason.

* * *

It’s been five hours… five minutes… (five days?) when a white strip of light cracks into Lance’s cell. In the open doorway stand three people, they all wear strange, angular masks that reflect the light around them and distort their facial features to the point of being unrecognisable. As Lance turns to look up at them, two rush in and grab him by the shoulders. He’s forced to a kneeling position in front of the third. He tries to meet eyes with the fractal pieces of mirrored glass.

“Strip.” The voice shoots out into the silence, distorted by a modulator.

Lance looks up at them, blinking. They raise a hand, one finger pointing at Lance’s chest.

“Strip.” They repeat, a second pulse of sound into the dark. Lance sees a fist clench in the corner of his eye. With shaking hands, Lance shrugs off his jacket and unclips his bowtie from his collar. Setting it on top of the neatly folded jacket, Lance makes to unbutton his shirt.

“No. That’s enough for now.”

_For now_. That leaves a bitter taste in the back of Lance’s throat.

One of the people behind him takes the clothes in hand and leaves the cell. A new masked interrogator enters the room, identical to the one who left. All wear padded jumpsuits that obscure their real builds and genders. 

The interrogator in front of him crouches down and Lance can see his fractal reflection in the flat planes of the mask.

“I am going to ask you some very important questions regarding your mission. Will you answer them?”

Lance blinks, frowning. He wonders if this is a part of the training.

“No.” He whispers. In the quietness of the room, it sounds like a shout. The mask bobs in a nod.

“Good.”

Then, Lance is forced to a corner of the room. A cloth is held over his face, water begins to pour onto him. Waterboarding. Strong, merciless hands hold him still as Lance chokes and bucks, his instincts screeching that he is drowning, and he has to get _away_.

After what was too long, too painful, Lance is straightened and the cloth is removed. He sputters, snot and tears dripping down his face.

“What are the details of your mission.”

Through shivering breaths, Lance shakes his head.

“Good.”

They put him back under.

* * *

If Lance’s counting is accurate, then the interrogators enter his room erratically. Sometimes a cup of water and stale piece of bread is placed on the floor by the door. Sometimes a group of three masked interrogators filter in, and the questioning resumes.

Lance makes a game of it, to cope, to get back at them. McCune just told them to hold out until the three days were up; she never said they couldn’t be cheeky little shits about it.

_What do you know-_

_Not much if I’m gonna be honest with you dude. Unless you wanna get into the Velvet Revolution or parabolic motion._

_How many agents are there in your headquarters._

_Bro, way too many. The lines for the toilets? Unbearable. A man saves the world on a daily basis and he’s gotta do it without bathroom breaks, I’m bursting here!_

_Where are your safehouses._

_Aw, you didn’t hear? There’s been some budget cuts, so everyone has to use tents instead._

Lance honestly missed taking the piss out of someone, even if it was an anonymous, faceless interrogator. He finds the stress of the interrogation resistance training more bearable if he can make light of it. And it’s nice to feel like this after the numbness and panic from the last two days. Maybe he can even get a laugh out of the interrogators. He could have sworn once that one of the figures had let out a static filled huff at one of his jibes.

* * *

Coming from Lance’s left, he hears someone shouting:

_Stop! Please! I’m done! I want to drop! Stop!_

It sounds like another candidate from a cell, their voice choked with hysteria. A pit forms in Lance’s stomach: how many are left? Have his friends dropped? Is he alone in this now? Lance swallows and focuses instead on the concrete digging into his knees and the rough gloves clenched around his biceps.

“Strip.” His shirt is carried out of the room. Another instructor takes their place.

They put him in a box for god knows how long. Lance’s thighs push into his chest and the heat and confinement makes it feel like he’s suffocating. It’s dark, more so than his cell during lights out. He’s ripped from the box, an hour later, and shaken by his shoulders. Someone demands to know the passcode to a weapons cache. Lance starts prattling off the numbers of pi.

“Good.”

They force him back in the box.

* * *

“Strip.”

His trousers, shoes, and socks. Lance is left kneeling in the room in his underwear. The chill bites into his bare thighs and the exposure feels almost painful. He kneels in that corner for over an hour, hands forced to rest above his head on the wall.

He’s barely given time to comprehend that it’s passed. He hopes that, at least, a day has gone by. In between the opening of doors and sharp masked strangers, Lance counts down from 17,280.

It’s not a way of coping that Lance has ever heard of, but he finds himself receding inwards, like sinking into a pool. His body experiences the sensory overload and deprivation, the isolation, the screaming, humiliation, and the sleeplessness. But Lance doesn’t hear or feel it. He breathes in air and exhales ice particles into the dark, letting his face be set by growing ice. His hands and feet are cold from the way he’s forced to sit, and he imagines that coldness encompassing his body, like he’s being preserved by permafrost. Waiting to be thawed out by rescue.

* * *

“Tell us what you know.”

“Fuck y-“ Tristan’s head jolts to the side from a tooth rattling slap.

“Good.”

The gloves the interrogators wear are rough, digging into his bare shoulders and keeping him in place. Tristan looks back up at the interrogator, glaring at his own distorted reflection in their mask.

“Cooperate and this will all be over.”

Tristan glares, wild and vicious. He doesn’t respond.

“Good.”

A bag is shoved over his head and cinched tight enough to dig into the soft skin of his throat. Noise cancelling headphones are pushed onto his head and his hands are bound behind his back. Tristan is forced onto the floor and going by the smell, they’d put his head right beside the bucket.

“Do not move from this position.”

There’s the sound of rustling fabric and boots padding against the concrete floor. Tristan breathes through his mouth, trying to ignore the cold hardness beneath him, the stink of his own piss, the tightness of the cord digging into his throat, the numbness in his hands. At least he can’t hear those awful sounds now.

* * *

_How do we access the underwater facility._

_You’ll find the clue is in the bloody_ name _._

_Give us the name of your partner._

_Your mum._

* * *

To Tristan’s right, he hears choked sobbing. He doesn’t know if it’s from a colleague or the recording.

Sometimes he’s kept awake for unbearable stretches of time, the deprivation lining his mouth with cotton. His eyes are dry, and each blink drags across the outer membrane with a painful slowness. An instructor comes in and shines a flashlight into Tristan’s eyes, throwing water on him from a bucket and shoving him against the wall before leaving abruptly, slamming the door behind them.

Tristan slides down the wall and closes his eyes. When he opens them, another instructor comes in, flashlight in hand.

* * *

He’s stripped piece by piece, the waiting itself doing more damage than actually being naked. When he had clothes, he clung to what shreds of privacy remained with a near desperation. Now, he’s all too aware of the feeling of concrete dust coating his skin.

* * *

Tristan spits sparks as the training progresses. Channelling the pain and fear into anger, letting himself be enveloped in its growing flames. He glares fiercely at the interrogators as they leave him sitting on his knees with a bag over his head for hours while screaming, obscene slapping and awful cracking sounds play out on speakers at full volume. They humiliate him, waterboard him, call him slurs and smack him about. Tristan grits his teeth and _waits_. He lets himself feel everything, all sensations becoming fuel for the blazing inferno within.

He thinks what he would do if this ever happened in real life. If he would leave anyone alive when he got free.

* * *

… 4,598

_How did you get here?_

_I walked._

… 387

A hand grasps at his face. He bites it. Acrid, rough leather scratches at his tongue.

“Good.”

They put him back in the box.

… 4

* * *

Light cracks into the dark room as the door opens. It stinks of piss, shit, and unwashed human. Wild blue eyes send a piercing glare at McCune, who stares at trainee McFord’s hunched, naked figure with an unbothered air.

“Congratulations, trainee. Rescue has arrived.” She drawls, stepping to the side to allow the medics in, who quickly check over McFord before covering him in a towel and escorting him back to site Beta. There, the candidates will have their first showers and full meals in three days, then be subject to a psychological evaluation. McCune will do some pruning of the year group afterwards, removing those who show worrying results from their evaluations.

Back in her office, McCune sits at a computer screen, drink in hand. The whiskey was a gift from the Cooley Distillery after a strange mission involving several pounds of malt vinegar, a dodgy chippie, and a tie-dyed balaclava. Her and Joy had shared almost half the bottle in celebration when Joy became Director in ‘83. She wasn’t the most popular amongst Wallace’s most devout allies and cronies, but McCune knew she was the best choice out of the lot. Rigid and strategic, Joy rarely compromises and refuses to take anyone’s shite. They hadn’t talked about anything important, simply recalling the early days, when Joy had been a junior agent working under McCune’s tutelage.

Now, McCune pours a finger from that same bottle, to steel her nerves when going over the footage of the last three days.

Ming had asked to not take part in the interrogation resistance training. Understandable, considering this year, the recording was of his first partner’s unfortunate fate. She’s never liked the final part of Fourth Phase, always so gruesome and damaging. But it’s a necessary immunisation; should the poor souls be captured in the field, subjected to torture and interrogation, they won’t go into it unprepared.

God knows McCune wishes she’d had it.

She quells the tremors in her hand, taking another burning sip from her drink as she looks over the footage from the previous three days, quietly scribbling down notable timestamps as the hours tick by.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lance May be developing unhealthy coping mechanisms that adversely affect him and have a negative impact on his interpersonal relationships but that's, like, a problem for Future Him


	22. Phase IV - (part vii)

Lance closes his eyes under the spray of Site Alpha's showers, letting the filth and grime of the last seventy-two hours wash down the drain. He breathes in the warm water; it stings his cold feet but soon he feels like a human being again.

* * *

The shower had helped douse Tristan’s temper, to take him out of the mindset of a caged animal. The psych eval makes him feel like a specimen, the prodding questions and leering gaze of the HTUV psychologist. It makes him snap in the beginning, but Tristan quickly tamps down his temper and gives short, one-worded answers when he can.

_How do you feel?_

_Fine._

_Are you currently experiencing increased aggression towards your instructors and fellow candidates?_

_No._

_Have you been experiencing any of the following: paranoia, hallucinations, delusions, anxiety, depression, or the want to self-harm?_

_No._

_Would you ever consider legal action against the HTUV in regard to your experience during the interrogation resistance training?_

_… No?_

The shrink ticks another box, asks him to sign at the bottom, and dismisses him without preamble.

* * *

The four of them reunite in the common rooms with the order to pack their bags in anticipation for travel. Lance almost finishes zipping his duffle bag up before remembering something on the windowsill. Carefully, he picks up Jesse’s painting of him. It’s been twelve weeks and she’s improved immensely since then and could easily make a much better version, but Lance feels a spark of tenderness looking at the botched painting. It’s earned a place in his bag. He rolls it up and carefully nestles it in with a pair of socks.

* * *

They agree to sit in Jesse’s room. The room is quiet, the four clutching warm drinks and choking down their experiences of the last five days. Lance breaks the fragile quiet with:

“Well that could’ve gone worse.”

Tristan barks out a laugh.

“Fuck. Sure. Yeah mate, guess you’re not wrong.”

“Would’ve rather I’d not gone through three days of simulated torture,” Says Rachel, “but yeah, it really could have.”

“I mean. Okay. Yeah.” Adds Jesse, in between incredulous sounds of laughter.

The room begins to fill with conversation, the four joking about who got the best dig in at the instructors. Lance feels something akin to pride knowing he got them out of the rut they were in.

* * *

The next day, McCune looks at the remaining twenty-six candidates. Those who were performance dropped had been quietly removed from The Stash in the wee hours of the morning.

Some stare back at her with rage, or emotionlessness. Others, still, stare at the ground. None of their hands shake - they remain strong in their cores. Good. McCune doesn’t really give a shit what some inexperienced kids think about her methods; if they could survive that, then they’ll survive whatever savagery the world wishes to impose onto them.

“Congratulations, recruits, you’ve earned the right to wear our suits.” She walks down the line, handing them their letters personally. “You have two hours to prepare for transit. Instructor Ming will take you to the Boston Logan International.” 

Lance breaks the wax seal with his thumb.

**Trainee Lance A. Sterling**

**Candidate No. 034**

**Specialisation: Operator**

Through the evaluation of your performance during:

HTUV Aptitude Exam – Approved by Inst. H. Wells

Limbo – Approved by Inst. H. Wells

Atchafalaya Basin Field Test – Approved by Inst. B. Johnson

Combat Proficiency – Approved by Inst. E. Fischer

Marksmanship Mastery – Approved by Inst. E. Fischer

Strategic Driving and Tactical Mobility – Approved by Inst. E. Fischer

HTUV Technology Proficiency – Approved by Inst. E. Fischer

Airborne Skills – Approved by Inst. E. Fischer

Piloting – Approved by Inst. E. Fischer

Performance Board – Approved by Inst. E. Fischer

Bar Exam – Approved by Inst. S. McCune

Urban Environment Adaptation Test – Approved by Inst. S. McCune

And taking into consideration, the commendations from Instructors Wells, Olokadana, Johnson, Dragov, Fischer, McCune, and Ming,

The board has approved your application to continue on to Phase V with the hope that you graduate as a full-time HTUV field agent.

**We wish the very best for your future.**

**Sincerely,**

**Affiliated Committee of the Agent Selection Course**

**Honour - Trust - Unity - Valour**

He stares at the letter, even as the candidates are escorted back to their dorms and there’s a rush of activity grabbing last minute things. Tristan savours his last cup of coffee, Jesse rushes down to reception to mail her canvases back home, Rachel debates whether to bring _Always Coming Home_ or _The Earthsea Quartet_. Lance sits by his bag, eyes blurring the white page and black text together. He knows he should call people, but he can’t find the strength to move just yet.

* * *

The evening finds Lance laughing and joking with the remaining twenty-six trainees over medley of different dinners. If he tries hard enough, he can block it all out and enjoy himself.

“So where are we even going for the final phase?” Asks someone.

“I heard it’s up north, like Alaska or something.” Says another.

“God, I hope it’s not Alaska. I hate the cold.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a lil chapter to wrap things up  
> and that ends the penultimate phase, the gang are almost there :')  
> It's midnight and idk how well edited these chapters are rn lmao pls forgive grammar error and spelling mistakes it's LATE


	23. Phase V - (part i)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alaska  
> December

With the early evening comes the sharp bite of December’s reminder that winter is here and the twentieth century is almost over. The fear of the Millennium Bug hangs over the heads of many. While Boston’s proximity to the coast insulates it from the worst of winter, Lance’s breath still puffs out in front of him as he trudges to the silver van and he begrudges the lack of warm jackets in their uniforms. 

The airport is crowded despite the day nearing its end, as time is not allowed through the front doors. Long lines form at check in, people craning their necks to peer at the flickering flight information boards above for Delhi, Charlottesville, Aruba, Denver, Tokyo, Miami, Lebanon, Fort Lauderdale, and Dublin. Names of cities, far away and near, blink and are replaced by other names of other far away and near places. Lance feels a twinge of homesickness seeing a flight for Washington DC due to leave in half an hour. He wonders how his dad has been. He should’ve called when he had the chance.

Their flight to Seattle is at seven, with a connecting flight to Anchorage immediately after. Then a two hour flight to Fairbanks after a four hour layover, and _another_ two hour flight to Anaktuvuk Pass. There, the candidates will meet up with their head instructor. The final leg of the journey is a forty minute flight by bush plane into the Northern Slope Borough tundra.

Ming had explained this to a very bewildered group of half-awake young adults, most of whom had never made more than one connecting flight in a journey.

“And make sure you get on the _Wright Air Service_ plane when you make it to Fairbanks,” he adds, quickly handing out their stacks of boarding passes. “We’ll have no idea where any of you are if you get stranded in the largest, wildest state in the country. Okay. Good luck, don’t abandon anyone in Seattle, don’t miss your flights.” He takes a deep breath and rushes to the van before the lost expressions get to him and Ming chaperones them to Alaska himself. He would have been a good father if life had turned out differently.

As Lance walks through the metal detector in security, it wails to signify it had in fact detected metal. He meekly looks to the Argenbright Security officer, who glares at the machine and trundles over. Instead of patting Lance down, he fiddles with a knob on the top of the detector.

“Damn thing’s been going off all day.” He mutters, returning to his post and waving Lance on.

The flight to Seattle is packed; Lance is sandwiched between another candidate named Marcus Serrano, who is snoring away by the time they reach cruising altitude, and a civilian woman with a baby on her lap. The chubby, drooling thing squeals in joy when Lance makes funny faces at it. According to the mother, they’re staying with the baby’s grandparents in Seattle for Christmas.

“And what about you?” She asks, tracing her eyes over Lance’s sharp jawline and defined cheekbones. “Where’s a man in such a nice suit travelling to?” Lance gives her a winning grin.

“Alaska.” He says, happily soaking up the attention. The woman’s smile becomes slightly incredulous and she cocks her head at him.

“Bit cold for a suit, don’t you think?”

“I’m hoping to get warmer clothes when we touch down.” He admits.

“Is it a long journey?”

“I’m told it’s about twenty-four hours of travelling. Got a flight right after this one to Anchorage, so I’m gonna have to run for it.” He responds with a wince. The woman blows a gust of air out of her mouth in sympathy.

The conversation ends not too long after, the child needing attention and Lance not wanting to pry into a parent and her kid making such a long journey alone. He turns back to his book and loses himself in _Ten Days That Shook the World_.

The plane touches down on Seattle-Tacoma’s runway, six and a half hours later. Lance’s eyes are gritty, and his lower back is tight from the crammed, upright sitting position he was in. As the aisles begin to clear out and Lance grabs the woman’s bag from the overhead compartment for her, she gives Lance a shy smile and wishes him safe travels. Lance wishes the same for her.

The passengers disembark from the plane, once a group of people travelling in the same direction, sharing a moment of unspoken unity, disperses. Now drifting strangers heading to individual destinations:

Lance and twenty-five other people in matching blue suits run to the other side of the terminal to catch their flight to Anchorage. And though passerby wouldn’t be able to tell, all were dreading the end of this journey; bracing for, and expecting, the worst when they touched down in Anaktuvuk Pass and met their last instructors. 

A family of five stand sleepily in line for customs, their plane to Canada due to leave in an hour and the dad doesn’t like how slowly the line is moving.

A group of teenagers wait for their bags to arrive, chattering excitedly about anything that comes to mind. All of them had been saving up and working part time jobs to pay for this trip, and now it’s _finally_ happening.

The woman walks out of arrivals, recently claimed suitcase in tow and her six-month-old on her hip. Outside, she reunites with her mom and dad, whose faces light up when they see her, and they immediately stride over to hug her. She missed them. As she walks to the car, she wonders if that handsome man made it to his flight.

Like passing comets caught by different stars, they will never see each other again.

* * *

The attendant at the desk for Alaskan Airlines flight AS89 may have been more bewildered by the charging stampede of thirty-something young adults in suits if this hadn’t been a yearly occurrence. Instead, he checks their boarding passes, and lets them on the flight with practiced efficiency.

Like every December, the man wonders what a bunch of suits are meant to be doing in Anchorage of all places. Maybe it’s for a conference about oil or something.

The cadre is loaded onto an Alaska Airlines plane with thirty other passengers. It must seem strange to the civilians on the plane, to see a sudden block of blue and black suits in the back of economy, or maybe they don’t care. Lance sits beside Jesse, who hunches over a small sketchbook, making quick drafts of landscapes and people’s faces.

This plane is much smaller than the one they took from Boston: there’s no middle row and Lance has to hunch over so his head doesn’t hit the curved, plastic ceiling. To his left, a woman reopens her crossword puzzle after standing to let Rachel into her window seat. With a familiar push from the momentum, the plane takes off and heads north, north, north to where mountains scratch at the sky and a whispering tundra waits for its next batch of promising young agents.

The four hour flight ends with a jolt as the plane drops onto the runway, Lance braces himself against the headrest of the seat in front of him, feeling the rattling of the plane’s surrounding metal skeleton. The flight attendant turns on the announcements, letting the passengers know it’s eleven at night and that it’s _fifteen degrees outside._

The passengers shuffle out of the plane and into the pitch black, illuminated by the weak orange lights of the surrounding buildings. A sudden, freezing gust of air makes Lance’s eyes tear up and he feels a rush of chills run down his back. He picks up his pace to reach the warm interior of the airport faster, relishing the heated air.

Tristan is already in the airport, waiting for Lance, Rachel and Jesse with his hands shoved firmly under his armpits. Lance huffs a laugh at Tristan’s miserable, shivering form.

“Take it, it doesn’t get this cold in Australia.” He says, ignoring his own chill to tease Tristan.

“In Australia, fifteen degrees does not mean _below freezing_.”

“Hey, don’t rag on Fahrenheit just because you can’t comprehend it.” Drawls Jesse, albeit shakily, as she too is shivering from the cold.

“It just doesn’t make any sense! What are they basing these numbers on? When I saw that it was over one-hundred in Arizona, I thought the end times had finally bloody come. Then I remembered it’s America and nothing makes sense here.” Tristan ends his tirade with a tired exhale. The three of them look at the half frozen Australian with matching raised eyebrows.

“The cold makes you grouchy, man.” Remarks Lance after a pause. Rachel shakes her head.

“He’s always grouchy, what’re you talking about?”

Tristan rolls his eyes, rubbing at his arms to generate a modicum of heat. “C’mon, let’s go find some food while we wait, I’m starvin’.”

Lance mimics his accent, over-pronouncing his last words. Tristan scoffs and walks faster. Behind Lance, Jesse moans about how cold the airport is despite the heating being on.

“You do know it’s going to get colder than this when we go further north, right?” Says Rachel, unfazed from the temperature.

“Please don’t remind me, I think I’m going into a state of torpor. If I don’t make it, bury me facing the east, so I can watch the sun rise once again.”

Rachel whacks Jesse’s arm, rolling her eyes at her friend’s dramatics.

* * *

Lance sips from his hot chocolate at the minutes tick by on the clock above, clutching his paper cup to leech its warmth. Tristan is hunched up on the bench beside him, wearing his jacket like a blanket with his arms out of the sleeves.

“It’s not that cold in here, Tris.”

Tristan’s sleepy expression cracks into a scowl and he rolls so his back faces Lance, darkly grumbling about Americans and their winters.

The Wright Air Service flight to Fairbanks is quiet, the cabin lights switched off after boarding as the dull whine of the engines outside come to life. Lance wriggles further into the seat, hoping to catch a few hours of sleep after the haze of long plane rides. The porthole shows nothing but a pitch black void, illuminated by the tiny sparks of red and green wing lights. Lance refuses to fall asleep just yet, but he does close his eyes, wondering what the stars look like out on the tundra; if they’re anything like how they looked in Arizona.

The landing is rough, tailwinds clutching at the plane’s rear as it descends down to Anaktuvuk Pass. The construction of the airport had only been completed a few months ago. Now it acts as a year-round pathway into the North. Lance’s breath fogs the inside of the glass as he cranes his neck up to look at the stars.

The Anaktuvuk Pass Airport is small and smells of damp carpet from the melted snow that fell off the boots of passengers and employees alike. The quite drone of filament lightbulbs overhead cast a weak, white light. Lance’s shadow is fuzzy and close to his feet as the cadre exit the gate. In front of them stands a young Iñupiat woman, face still round with baby fat, yet adorned with a triangular tattoo on her forehead and three stripes going down her chin. Her eyes, a deep brown, widen and she grins when the cadre come into view.

The girl walks to them with a purpose, stopping and standing with her shoulders back and her chin up.

“Ada Blackjack Ashevak, I’m the Head Instructor for Phase Five.” She starts. Ada opens her mouth to continue, but a candidate to the left of Lance, Serrano, speaks up.

“You’re, uh, just a kid.” He says, unsure what he's seeing is another exhaustion-induced hallucination. Ada shifts her weight to one hip, crossing her arms.

“I’m also your pilot, so unless you want to walk the sixty mile trek through the mountains, in the dead of winter, I’d recommend being a little bit more respectful of your Head Instructor.” Ada says, mouth pulled back in bared-tooth smile that reminds Lance of a fox. Serrano, nods, ducking his head to look down at the floor.

Ada, satisfied by the subdued silence from the candidates, smooths over any aggression in her posture and explains the flight plan.

“We’ll start the final leg of your journey to Desolation Sound. It’ll take three trips because _Aaquluatchiaq_ can’t take more than fourteen people at once, and we’ll be transporting your luggage separately.” Ada pauses, professional air dissipating, appearing more like the eighteen year old the candidates don't know she is. She shrugs. “So, like, I don’t know, have dinner? Merv sells some good chilli down by gate one.”

She shrugs again at their blank faces, and calls out the first fourteen trainees, including Rachel. They vanish through a gate, back out into the cold arctic air. Lance, Tristan and Jesse wander to gate one, chilli on their minds. Other candidates disperse into their friend groups, claiming benches and making beelines to the bathrooms.

Maybe it’s because the last thing Lance ate was a bread roll ten hours ago on the flight to Seattle, but Merv’s chilli pot was damn good. Made with kidney beans, pinto beans, ground beef, tomato sauce, sweet corn, onion, chunks of potato and melted cheese, it may as well have been something served on a silver platter in the Hamptons instead of a wax-paper cup in Anaktuvuk Pass Airport.

“Holy shit, this chilli’s good.” Groans Jesse, beside Lance on the bench. At the very end, beside Jesse, Tristan grunts in agreement between large mouthfuls.

The air static, not in the way it was before a thunderstorm in Louisiana, rather the kind of stillness when you hold a breath and feel the silence around you settle. While the larger airports like Seattle and Boston never slept, the small airport nestled in the Gates of the Arctic rests its eyes beneath a gigantic, starry sky.

Lance shifts on the bench, leaning against Jesse who, despite complaining about him using her as a pillow, doesn’t move as her friend settles. She lets her arms relax by her sides and closes her eyes. She refuses to fall asleep, though, memories of a basement underneath a faux-construction site linger along the edges of her mind, waiting like wolves to descend.

* * *

Dazed from his short nap, more haze than actual sleep, Lance trudges out into the darkness alongside eleven other candidates. He feels the chill more sharply from his tiredness, white breath glittering in the lights. The _Aaquluatchiaq_ , or the old lady, as Ada had referred to it as, is a white and red Cessna 206. She sits patiently, condensation steaming off her cooling front as the candidates stagger into the cabin.

A man sits in the co-pilot’s seat, bright orange headphones shielding his ears from the worst of the noise. Ada heaves herself into the pilot’s seat and they share a quick exchange, ensuring they haven’t left anyone behind and that the plane is still in working order.

With a deafening roar, the front propeller begins to spin and the plane gains momentum down the strip. It bounces once, jolting Lance in the leather seat, before getting enough wind beneath its wings to take off properly, levelling and rocking with the wind. The pinpricks of light from Anaktuvuk’s buildings are snuffed out by the clouds and mountains, and soon Lance finds himself flying through black nothingness, depending on the pilots to get them to Desolation Sound safely. 

The landing is rougher than the take-off, the passengers being rocked back and forth as the back-wheel touches down on the hard-packed snow. Ada and the co-pilot, a middle-aged Inupiaq man, shimmy out the side doors. Ada throws open the passenger door and waits for the candidates to disembark while the man checks over the bush plane’s exterior.

“Okay, I’ll give the official tour of Desolation Sound in the morning when you’re all capable of understanding it. For now, we’ll get bedding and such sorted. The other fourteen are already set up, so they’ll show you where the bathrooms are. I’m heading back to Anaktuvuk with da- Instructor Tulmiaq to get your bags.” With no small amount of struggling from the candidates, wearing oxfords and sneakers, they cross the snowy air strip and follow Ada through a path carved into the snow that sits as high as Lance’s hip. He feels the chill seep into his feet as a clump of snow falls into his shoes and melts through his socks.

The path from the airstrip branched, one branch heads straight to several A-frame cabins nestled between tall, snow laden spruce trees, bracketed by large snowbanks. The green roofs jut up at a dramatic angle, ensuring no heavy snowfall remains on the top of the building, preventing any possible collapse. Orange lamplight flickers out onto the snow from the small windows of two cabins.

Ada leads them to two unoccupied cabins, shuffling around her pockets and muttering under her breath as she looks for something. From her inner jacket pocket, Ada extrudes a large key ring with a triumphant exclamation. Lance notices a small, wooden orca dangling amongst the flashes of silver. The inside of the cabin is warm, a small wood stove burning in the centre of the room with bunk beds lining the wall. Ada counts out eight candidates before moving on to the next.

As Lance clambers up the ladder to a top bunk on the left side of the room, Ada tells the candidates to rest up, they start early in the morning.

“We’ll have your luggage in the main cabin for pickup tomorrow, in the mean time, get comfortable. The building’s well insulated so none of you should be succumbing to hypothermia any time soon.” She frowns. “I hope.”

Ada shrugs and shuts the door, leaving six candidates stare at where she had stood, mildly concerned by her parting words. Lance, too tired to care at this point, shimmies under the thick duvets that smell like detergent and cold air and falls asleep to the soft breathing of other candidates and the crackling of wood-fire.

* * *

**Week 1**

The Northern Slope Borough in winter is a sight to behold. As the tilt of the Earth angles its North Pole away from the Sun, Alaska becomes the moon’s domain. Freshly fallen snow shines underneath its cool gaze, sometimes so bright there isn’t a need for flashlights in the night. In the height of winter, the sun will not rise. It is not welcome here.

Unfortunately, the candidates aren’t held to this standard, and at six in the morning, a ringing alarm rattles them from their exhausted slumbers. Maybe if it had been earlier in their training, some in the top bunks would have fallen out. They’re better now, more composed and less flighty. It feels strange to Lance, to realise Beau’s trumpet wake up calls were only a handful of months ago.

The realisation that almost an entire year has passed dawns on Lance as he straightens his suit as best as he can, the stark white dress shirt rumpled from his sleep. He feels a surge of excitement at this. Finally, _finally_ , he’s almost there. He’ll take off as Special Agent Lance Sterling in three weeks’ time, ready to save the world at a moment’s notice. He grins at the idea on the way to the main cabin, ignoring the cold seeping into his shoes and the fact that it was still pitch black outside, the moon’s crescent too thin to cast proper light.

The main cabin is twice the size of the A-frames and further into the wooded part of the Desolation Sound territory. Green, corrugated metal roofs juts up between the trees, sharply angled to ensure snow doesn’t accumulate on the building. Thick, double glazed windows dot the walls, orange light emanating from within. One can just make out figures moving around the front room, shadows dancing about the ground.

Lance feels like he’s an intruder on a home rather than a candidate in a military-endorsed training scheme. This place doesn’t have the sharp, utilitarian edges as Blue Marsh Compound or Camp Exspes, nor the smug, hidden-in-plain-sight energy from Steel Jaw Barrow and The Stash. Up here, where the air was a cotton-in-your-ears sort of quiet, and the only sign of life were Lance’s fellow candidates, Desolation Sound was a place of its own.

The inside of the cabin is sweltering, rugs and tapestries line the walls and mis-matched pieces of furniture dot the kitchen-living room combo. An old copper kettle spews steam on top of the large stove in the kitchen alcove. Dominating the southern wall is a large map of the Desolation Sound area, framed by Prudhoe bay in the north, Anaktuvuk Pass in the south, with the Colville and Sag Rivers bracketing the width of the territory.

The cabins are nestled in the foothills of the southern mountains, Arctic tundra taking up a majority of the map. The blue line of Desolation Sound’s area makes a jutting blob through a chunk of Arctic Gates mountains before looping upwards and claiming the foothills just outside the rest of the national park. Lance balks when he sees the scale of it – the area is almost twenty-four thousand acres in size. The map is littered with marks made in pen; circles and dots with small notes like _Heli Crash Site 3/10_ and _Bear Den, stay away!!_ and _Dogsled Trail_.

Underneath the map are their bags, neatly stacked to save space. Lance checks for his ring when he gets the chance to grab his own duffel bag – it’s still tucked away in his spare pair of socks.

There’s enough space for the twenty-six candidates to sit, albeit with some squeezing. Lance finds himself sitting in front of the old red couch, Rachel curled up above him, and Tristan and Jesse sitting to his left. The quiet chatter ends when the huskies outside in kennels begin hollering loud, whining barks at someone nearing the cabin.

The co-pilot from last night enters the cabin, kicking snow off his fur-lined boots outside. The co-pilot is a middle aged Iñupiaq man with long, black hair. A tattoo of a single, thick line crosses the bridge of his nose and Lance wonders of its importance – Inuit tattoos often have very personal meanings to the wearers.

He regards the cadre with a deliberate, calculating stare. The emotionlessness behind the expression is eerie to Lance. Like them, the man must have been trained to project a blank slate.

“Large group this year…” He mutters, before turning into the kitchen alcove and pouring the hot water into a French press. The candidates watch his movements in bated silence, his movements sure and strangely deliberate despite him just pouring water. Lance steals a glance at Tristan, who watches with the same dreadful anticipation as the rest of them.

The man waits and then presses the plunger down, pouring the brewed coffee into the waiting mugs beside him. The sound of hot coffee hitting ceramic fills the silence. He turns to the candidates in the living room, who watch him with careful, focused looks.

“Now that I have your attention,” he starts, his voice crackling like woodfire, “may as well get introductions out of the way. I am Tulmiaq, instructor at Desolation Sound. My kid, Ada is head instructor here; you can call us whatever you wish, as long as it’s respectful.

“There are several others who will assist in training you candidates over the next two weeks. Don’t really care if you learn their names or not, they’re not here to be your friends. Considering that you’ve survived this long, and have gotten this far, we’re not going to pull any punches. Week one will focus on arctic environment survival; week two on HTUV mission protocol and sorting out partners. Third week is the final test to see if any of you are up to snuff.”

Tulmiaq takes a sip from his steaming mug, eyes never leaving the candidates.

“Head instructor Ashevak will take you for the first week, then it’s my turn. For now, we’ll hand out proper clothing for the arctic. The suits’re good, yes, but they’re not the best at thermal regulation.” Tulmiaq doesn’t move, simply leaning on the counter and drinking coffee. The candidates look around at each other, not sure where to go from here. Tulmiaq sighs into his drink and gestures to the corner of the room with his mug.

“Sort yourselves out, independence _is_ something the board looks for in an agent.”

A large crate sits in the corner of the room, beside their bags. Inside, it’s sectioned off for different pieces of cold weather clothing. Lance pulls out a large, winter-camo jacket with a fur interior and straps at the wrists to stop snow from getting in. Following it: thermal underlayers, thick black socks, calf height snow boots with clasps and fur-lining, and white snow pants with suspenders to keep them up.

Tulmiaq turns from watching the candidates change into the winter gear to the window facing the kennels. The dogs are howling again as Ada picks her way through the wire fences, occasionally stopping to check over the dogs or give them attention. He looks further back, past the kennels and sled house, to where the snow mobiles are lined up and the other instructors are finishing morning preparations.

“Jesus these things are stuffy.” Mutters Jesse, puffing from the heat of the thick jacket that zips up to her chin.

“Better keep the chill out.” Grouses Tristan, shrugging the suspenders over his black thermal shirt. The tip of his nose still red from the cold.

“You two have been spoiled by the heat, honestly.”

“What? Rachel you’re from New York, aren’t you cold?” Tristan says, turning to her. Rachel looks at him with a raised eyebrow.

“It snows there, Tris.”

_“It does?”_

Rachel opens her mouth to continue, but then the front door opens with Ada lingering by the doorway, looking in towards the candidates. Her glaze flicks over to Tulmiaq, who gives her a nod.

“Alright, since you’re all ready for today, follow me.” She says, turning and trudging back down the path.

The dogs in the kennels, huskies with white, black, and brown markings and piercing blue eyes, howl loudly and almost human like as the candidates walk past them. Some balance on their hind legs and plant their front paws on the chain link fence, barking and wagging their tails, demanding attention from the passerby.

“These are the sled dogs!” Informs Ada, over their clamour. “In case no one noticed, they’re pretty loud!” Lance rolls with eyes and huffs a laugh, ears ringing from the huskies’ braying calls.

A large building is connected to the kennels, with the dog run allowing huskies access to inside. The barn doors are propped open with a stone and Lance sees wooden dog sleds handing from the rafters, as well has assortments of animal skins he can’t recognise in the poor light.

Past that is a building made from metal supports and tarp, a large pot burbles on top of a woodfire stove and benches line up in the middle. An instructor minds the contents inside and nods in acknowledgment as they pass.

“Mess hall.” Says Ada. Shoved to the sides are containers, propane canisters, first aid kits and extra cold weather clothing.

They walk to the back of the building where a medley of snowmobiles idle, powerful engines purring in the snow. Attached to them are four-person pull behinds. Ada stops and turn to the candidates.

“We’ll be taking you to the training ground for basic fitness. It’s about five miles north, where the tundra starts, so the ground’s flatter and there’s less chance of anyone breaking their necks in a tree well.”

The candidates load themselves into the rigid plastic containers without much preamble, already used to uncomfortable modes of transport.

* * *

The ride is bumpy despite the springs absorbing most of the force, and Lance has to squint and pull the fur hood closer around his face to keep away any kick up snow. The instructors stand on the snowmobiles, using their body weight to turn and keep balance. True to Ada’s word, the ground eventually flattens and ride goes smoother as they break the tree line and the vast expanse of the tundra stretches out before them.

The sky is overcast, the headlights worn by the instructors being the only consistent source of light in the area. Despite this, Ada has the candidates running laps through a rectangular training ground on top of a frozen lake. Though the candidates don’t make any verbal objections, that’s been beaten out of them at this point, their uneasy expressions are still open for all to see. Ada scoffs, flapping her hand.

“Don’t worry about it, the ice is over a foot thick, it could support tanks if need be. Now get running, no point in freezing your asses off _before_ you’re meant to.”

The warm-up had been simple jogging trials and low-movement exercises like squats and planks while the instructors drilled into the frozen lake. After ten minutes, Lance has warmed up to the point of shedding his thick jacket, sweat evaporating off his upper body. Beside him, Tristan has done little more than pull down his hood.

“Seriously dude, aren’t you sweating?” Pants Lance as they round another lap.

“Are you joking?” Tristan blinks at him owlishly. “It’s bloody freezing, how are you not getting frostbite.”

“Because it’s really not that cold, man.”

“My tears froze in my eyes this morning Lance! It’s cold!”

If it was cold for Tristan then, he’s obviously not going to enjoy what they had to do next. The instructors incorporated the fresh hole in the lake into the exercises, having two candidates dunk themselves into the freezing lake before pulling themselves up and returning to the exercises.

The shock of the chill knocks the air out of Lance’s lungs and his muscles immediately tense up, for a scary moment he thinks he can’t breathe. It quickly passes through the instructor’s guidance above him. Behind him, he hears someone yell:

_“Oh fuck it’s fucking cold!”_

And then Ada’s voice:

“No shit. Tell me what seven plus four is.”

“Uh. Um. Shit.” Their teeth clacker together. “Ten - uh - elev - en?”

“Close enough, get out now.”

Tristan may be a sensitive, weak of heart Australian, but he’s right about the cold. It’s different so far inland. It’s dry, freezing the mucus in Lance’s nose and burning his lungs with each inhale. By the time they return to the cabins, Lance’s chest aches.

Food is served in the mess hall, the candidates inhaling the stew with gusto after working up an appetite from shivering and the exercise. The stew is high in fat and carbohydrates, enough calories to tide them over until this evening.

Lance looks over to Tristan, who shivers so hard bits of stew fall onto the table.

“You’re _really_ not used to the cold, huh?”

Tristan rolls his eyes.

“I’ll get used to it.” He mutters, willing his hand to still.

“Think warm thoughts.” Jesse says, around a piece of beef. “’s helped me so far.”

* * *

On the gentle slope of the foothills, the candidates are taught how to operate the retractable skis HTUV supplies its agents on snowy missions. They clip onto the agents’ shoes and engage using a handheld button on small batons that extend into lightweight ski poles. It also requires the agent to jump to allow the skis to deploy properly. First time use was comedic to any onlookers, and painful to the user.

Lance slams onto the ground, almost making it that time, except he’d lost his balance on his left foot and it flew out from under him, taking the rest of him with it. He groans and squints up at the sky, fat snowflakes drifting down.

“I would’ve thought this would require a bit more grace.” He groans. “Like figure skating.” Ada’s face comes into view.

“You obviously haven’t seen a figure skater practice. They’re always eating shit.” She helps him up and corrects his form, telling him to keep his centre of gravity low and focus on foot placement when landing.

The actual skiing, though, was far more entertaining for Lance, considering Tristan had obviously never skied before in his life.

“Trista, pizza slice! Remember the pizza slice!” Lance calls after him, hands cupped around his mouth. Tristan rockets down the hill, arms pinwheeling to keep him upright.

“Fuck your pizza slice!”

Lance hears a grunt in the distance, as Tristan collides with a man-made snowbank.

“That was fucking hilarious.” Remarks Rachel, blankly, Her body suspended in the air with nothing but her poles and the tips of her skies supporting her body.

“Oh that looked like it hurt.” Winces Jesse as she wobbles to a stop, having skied only once before, when she was eleven on a family trip to the alps.

“Are you dead or something, trainee?” Yells Ada, halfway down the hill. She carves along the hill to the bottom with ease, stopping in front of Tristan with a skid of snow.

“Give me a moment. I’ll figure this out.” Grumbles Tristan, extricating himself from the snowbank.

“Right.” Drawls Ada. “Never skied before, I take it?”

“… maybe.”

“Figured, you’re pretty bad.”

“Thank you, Head Instructor Ashevak, very professional.”

Ada shrugs, unbothered by his cheek. She catches Tristan as he begins to stumble, steady as ever on her own skis.

“Before you manage to kneecap yourself, I’m gonna take you over to the small hill and show you the basics. Y’know, find your balance, figure out how to turn and stop n’ stuff.” Tristan complies, grumbling and embarrassed all the while.

Thankfully, Tristan is a fast learner, of languages, of science, and of throwing oneself down at mountain on two frictionless pieces of fibreglass. Once he finds his balance and centre of gravity, it was only a short amount of time before he was making more confident turns and stops. Soon re-joins the cadre on the original hill. Ada, despite her age and inexperience, is a good teacher, able to cut straight to the point and explain it in a way Tristan understands immediately. Her sharp sense of humour also helps Tristan warm up to her tutelage.

It’s strange, he muses, the difference in mannerisms between the head instructors; McCune and Wells were equally as distant, though Wells didn’t seem to have McCune’s dry humour or air of refinement. So far, Ada has never been cruel or callous towards the candidates, given the luxury to focus more on teaching than discipline. Beau was personable, teaching Tristan much on mechanical engineering, happy to explain it to anyone who asked, but Tristan knew he kept every candidate an arm’s length away. Gila was harsh to everyone, but obvious in her favouritism for him and Lance, barking sharp laughs when either met or surpassed her expectations. Giving them more room to fuck up.

He remembers sitting in Gila’s office, watching her fill out the form for the final certificate. She’d taken the time to flip through the book once more, thumb tracing over the sniper training badge he’d received.

_You’ll be a good agent, McFord_. She’d told him, looking at the table with a furrowed brow. _Just remember that being a good agent and being a good person are very different things._

* * *

Maybe if Desolation Sound had been an earlier phase, more time would have been taken to ensure the cadre were properly acclimated to the environment. But a good agent is adaptable, and the candidates have to show they’ve retained what the previous phases have beaten into them.

Thus, the physical training is _hard_. Muscle burning endurance training that leaves Lance exhausted and starving after each session. More often than not he sleeps like a rock, any nightmares of Jason, and the basement under Site Omega unable to reach him in his deep slumber. They eat large portions of food that originally Lance wouldn’t have been able to finish but now, with their bodies working overtime keeping warm during the training, it just about quells his appetite.

The first day had been skiing and general fitness, getting used to the cold and how to move in it. Soon the candidates moved on to cold weather survival with Ada teaching them the COLDER principals: keep clothing clean, avoid overheating, wear loose layers, keep clothing dry, examine the clothing often, and repair any damage as soon as possible.

In the forests south of the cabins, the candidates are shown how to make tree-pit shelters by digging into the snow around the evergreen tree trunk, where it’s less packed, using the boughs as the roof and insulating floor.

* * *

"Hey, do you remember who had my camera last?"

"Think Rachel might've snatched it, should probably ask her."

* * *

In the Sag river, the candidates are shown how to pull themselves and others who have fallen through the ice; by lying flat on one’s stomach and kicking out of the water, or using some sort of cord or rope to help drag the other out of the water. It was also a fun learning experience in how to push through the cold water shock and stop oneself from instinctively gasping in a lungful of freezing water.

That night, Lance had spent a fair amount of time huddled in front of the wood-burning stove in his A-frame. Flexing his fingers intermittently to banish the prickling numbness from the tips and ignoring the complaints that he was hogging all the warmth from his bunkmates.

On the tundra, the candidates are shown how to shoot, stalk and stay hidden from enemy sentries and snipers, picking their way carefully along the cold ground. Like long-range shooting, Lance has little patience for it, but Tristan enjoys the quiet focus it allows him to slip into.

“You get all Terminator when we do stuff like that, dude.” Lance had told Tristan on their way back from the tundra. “It’s a bit scary.” Tristan hadn’t known what to say in response, he’d only shrugged.

* * *

"Hey, man, do you have my camera?"

"Oh, shit, yeah. I'll go get it if you want. Sorry, I've been hogging it all month."

"Nah, it's alright, hold onto it for now. May as well get this phase out of the way."

* * *

While the huskies are working dogs, and treated as such, the oldest of the bunch had become more of a lap dog – as much of a lapdog that a fifty-pound, fifteen year old sled dog can be. Nipi’s blue eyes were clouded over with cataracts and was content to curl up on Ada’s lap after years of pulling the sleds.

Ada watches the candidates eat their dinner, her own consumed during their training, which had involved counteracting windchill and learning how to parachute onto the different snowy landscapes. One of the candidates had gotten tangled up in the boughs of a cedar tree and dad and one of the newer instructors had to scale the thing to cut her free.

The boards of the small porch shifts under Tulmiaq's weight as he sits down beside her. He scratches Nipi’s white head before returning to his meal.

“So,” he starts, “how have things been going for you, Head Instructor Ashevak?”

Ada laughs into her bowl. “Good so far, Instructor Ashevak.”

“You’ve been handling the cadre well so far. Part of it may be prior experience with the other phases, but they respect you.”

“Thanks. It’s… it’s good to know this hasn’t been a fluke so far.” Ada focuses on Nipi’s soft ears, one had a raised scar in it from an encounter with a lynx five years ago. She’d stitched it up herself. “I feel like I’m flying by the seat of my pants all day, like at any moment something’s gonna happen and I’m not gonna know what to do.”

Ada feels her dad’s arm wrap along her shoulders, pulling her near.

“Hm. Yeah, it usually feels like that in the first handful of years.” He muses. “You get used to it, you get better, more experienced. From what I’ve seen so far you’re a natural. Should’ve had you taking up the first week years ago.” He jokes. Ada huffs a laugh leaning into him.

“Thanks, dad.”

They sit like that, overlooking their family home and the small sparks of life scattered throughout it. In the tent, a group of four friends bemoan their tiredness and tease each other with a familiarity that should’ve come from _years_ of knowing each other instead of eleven months. But sometimes, people click, and they talk with strangers like they’ve known them their entire lives, because in a way, maybe they have.

In Tulmiaq’s room, he finalises the partner matchups after finishing his long-distance call with the board and Jenkins. He files the list away and pulls out a map of Desolation Sound, marking possible areas of interest for the final week, as he'd been doing for almost ten years.

* * *

Three-thousand-four-hundred miles from the site of final phase, in the intensive care unit of the Massachusetts General Hospital, patient J. Wallace takes his first, unassisted breath after a week and a half in a medically induced coma. The first thing he feels is pain, and panic. Invasive tubs in his arms, down his throat, up his urethra. A sudden rush of claustrophobia overtakes him, and he hears the pulses of an ECG spike, belatedly realising it’s his own racing heartbeat.

With a shaking hand, he presses the call button for a nurse. Despite the attentions from the hospital staff, a small part of Jason realises he is alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ngl, the only reason i knew it snowed in new york was because of the TMNT 2003 christmas special
> 
> aw lads, we're almost done the training part of this beast of a fic, vaguely sorry it's dragged on to 100k words, but it's Necessary Worldbuilding,, gotta Establish some stuff before i take half of these characters and snap them over my knee like a glowstick lmao
> 
> lance: hey ;)  
> pretty lady: hey ;))  
> me: and nothing became of it :-)


	24. Phase V - (part ii)

**Week 2**

Instead of being shuttled out to the training ground, Tulmiaq instead calls the cadre into the main cabin while Ada was out dog sledding.

“She’s checking the snares and such.” Tulmiaq had told them with a dismissive shrug, when asked about her absence. The trainees watch with barely concealed jealousy as he takes the final swig of his well brewed morning coffee.

“Onto more important things this morning, it’s finally time to disclose agent pairs.” Tulmiaq holds up a sealed envelope with the HTUV logo emblazoned on the front.

Even though Lance already knew who his partner was, the excitement that filled the air was infectious and he couldn’t help but look at Tristan with a grin. Some of the candidates chitter amongst themselves while others stare at the envelope intently.

“The board’s been deliberating these pairs since day one. They’ve looked over every scrap of paper, every offhand comment to make sure the partners are best for each other. Sure they can change within the last handful of weeks, but more often than not the board are right the first time around.”

Tulmiaq calls out the thirteen pairs alphabetically, the polite silence punctured by the named trainees turning to each other and celebrating in one way or another.

“Akombe and West.”

“Alverez and Yamamoto.”

At that, Jesse throws both hands in the air in celebration.

“Fuck yeah!”

Rachel nods to herself, nudging Jesse with her elbow. “Sounds about right.”

“Baker and Royale.”

“Carnagan and Serrano.”

Marcus turns to his Canadian friend.

“Ha! Now you’re really stuck with me!”

Carnagan responds with a groan and a poorly hidden smile.

Xiao is partnered with Abel Sakho, the only Senegalese person in the year. Neither seem surprised nor disappointed by the development, with Sakho nodding to Xiao from across the room and Xiao giving him a half-smile and a two-fingered salute. Lance realises how little he’s been paying attention to the other candidates, who had formed multiple, separate friend groups over the year without him even knowing.

Tulmiaq saying Lance’s name jolts him out of his musings.

“McFord and Sterling.”

Tristan whips his head around to Lance, pleasantly surprised. Lance gives him two thumbs up.

“Fuckin’ hell! Of course it’d be you!” He laughs, walking over to Lance and clasping his shoulder. “Wouldn’t have anyone else watching my back.”

Lance feels a surge of pride at that. He smiles and the two clasp hands.

“Took the words right out of my mouth, man.”

* * *

Tulmiaq has the new pairs working together immediately; taking them out onto the tundra to work on pair cohesion. Two or more pairs would be pitted against each other in a capture-the-flag-like game with replica HTUV guns where instead of bullets, they shot out plastic pellets. It was thrilling to sprint across the icy ground, charging one trainee while Tristan distracted the other with accurate shots from the pellet gun. They had the same weight and bearings as the guns they’d use in the field.

Obvious synergy aside, Lance’s more foolhardy and overconfident nature often led to him taking more risks during the exercises while Tristan was more keen to observe and develop a plan before striking. Sometimes it led to their teamwork falling apart and them losing the match; other times, tough, Lance would goad Tristan into acting faster while Tristan would hold Lance back long enough to properly think about strategy.

Even though they couldn’t see it, Tulmiaq and the others already saw the beginnings of a seamless pair of agents working together, as if they’d known each other for years – fist fights in the swamp and cold shoulders in underwater training facilities notwithstanding.

Ada’s dog sled had streaked past the training ground on her way back to the cabin. She’d come close enough that Lance had seen several small animals hanging from the side of her sled, moving with the momentum of the sled. Then Tristan yanked him to the ground to avoid the sudden burst of fake-gunfire, telling him to stop ogling teenagers. Lance had sputtered out an indignant response. He was looking at the animals, _Tristan_. 

* * *

“So how surprised were you about your partner, scale of one to ten?” Jesse asks the group at the industrial table when they’d returned from training. Several other candidates were sitting with them and had given responses varying from _figured it out months ago when Gila kept partnering us up –_ to, _gotta be honest I didn’t know their last name and was a bit confused as to who my partner was_.

The partners had seemed to take the assignment up to heart, and even now were sitting side by side. Tristan was hunched over the table, right hand wedged under his thigh to keep it warm.

“Was sorta thinking Rachel ‘n I were gonna be partners, Wells had us working together a lot.” He shrugs. “Got stuck with Lance in the end. Guess there’s worse people to babysit.” He smirks as Lance rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah.” Lance debates on telling everyone he’d known from the get-go that him and Tristan were going to end up as partners, by the time he’d come to a decision, they’d moved on to talking about siblings and babysitting them.

“I’d always have to take care of my little brothers, Kyle and Danny ‘cause I was the oldest out of the three of us.” Tristan says in response to a question Lance didn’t hear. “Usually I’d just put a movie on for them and sneak out, if mum and dad were out all night.”

Rachel snorts.

“Very responsible of you.”

“Hey, you’re an only child, you don’t know how much younger siblings can drive you up the wall.” Tristan responds, gesturing with his utensil. “Besides, I’d help them out with things like homework and bullies, and such. Neither could really stand up for themselves and kids can be mean. So I’d handle it for them.” Tristan finishes with a shrug.

“My older brother would sit on me and _fart_.” Says Jesse with a grimace. “Your brothers were spoiled having you as a big brother.”

“Maybe,” he concedes. Tristan’s expression turns dark and he focuses on the food in front of him rather than the people around him. “Fat lot of good it did me. Neither of them care to talk with me anymore.”

The atmosphere goes awkwardly quiet, Rachel looking at Tristan with a sympathetic gaze and Jesse looking down at the table with a frown, frustrated about having nothing to say. Lance nudges Tristan with his elbow in the way of comfort. They awkwardly poke at their food until it’s time to head out to the training ground again.

They continue with team building exercises; carrying each other long distances, learning how to give subtle signals on movement, ways to cover the other’s back, using their gadgets in tandem.

It’s different to previous training sessions, which had focussed on the individual specifically now, Lance has to consider Tristan’s thought process to predict and aid him during drills, the same as Tristan was undoubtedly doing for him.

Tulmiaq is a perceptive man, able to point out different flaws in their thought patterns based off nothing but how they move together. Lance wonders what he would’ve been like in the field with his own partner.

“I see how that foot’s angled, Yamamoto. You’re set to run into Alverez like that, not with her.”

“McFord, focus more on the drilling and not chewing out your partner. You’ll have time to yell at Sterling after the mission is done and neither you are being shot at.”

“Serrano stop being a prick or I’m _letting_ Carnagan throttle you.”

He has them spar in doubles, one pair versus another, going over different strategies for group fights, similar to the ones they went over way back in Phase I.

“Don’t be individualistic about these fights! Help your damn partner against a foe; push away your opponent and give them a hand.” He barks, irritated by how many times they’ve devolved into two one-on-one matches, missing the entire point of the exercise.

* * *

On days the candidates catch Tulmiaq in a better mood, he shows them different applications to their gadgets.

“Now, the grappling hook is certainly good for crossing large gaps, considering that’s what it was made to do. But those claws and hooks on the head can be used as a weapon if you’re out of options and need to get creative. Aim it right and you can even kill someone with the force of it by breaking their neck. Leaves a nasty wound on someone, too; can rip sizable chunks out of them when you retract it.”

“Sure, the piranha pen can bust through locks and barricades, but it chews through armour and clothes like it’s _nothing_. Good way to scare information out of someone. Good way to burn it out of them. Can even cause some hefty damage to the skin as well, if you’ve the stomach to go through with it. Just know the smell’ll make you gag like nothing ever has.”

“The drones are small enough that you could slip them into someone’s pocket and leave it there. Then, when the time calls for it, trigger them to detonate.”

Ada is always absent when he tells them these sorts of things, Tristan notes. He chalks it up to a father protecting his kid and returns his focus on the tasks ahead. He’d do the same thing, anyways.

* * *

The first twenty minutes of each day is spent with Tulmiaq, talking about mission types and enemy classification.

“Now, obviously it can be difficult to put each individual mission into a distinct category when so many of them can become continent hopping and change directive on a dime. But still, order must be maintained so the desk jockeys can write up proper reports.

“Officially, there’s six categories a mission can fall into. Sometimes they overlap, but that’s not a field agent’s problem. We’ll start with termination. Just a fancy word for assassination, really. Unlimited range, usually the pair will be assigned specialised weapons for long-range termination, but more delicate missions may call for something close range or chemical.

“You’ve probably heard Johnson’s spiel about poisons HTUV uses, and McCune’s gone over ways to slip different drugs into a target’s food and drink. Oftentimes it’ll be something tasteless and colourless as to not arouse suspicion, and fast acting so they can’t get help in time. Either way, once the termination has been confirmed, you’ve gotta get the hell out of dodge to the extraction point, people are rarely lenient to murderers on either side.”

Someone speaks up near the back of the room.

“Sir?”

“Yeah?”

“How are the… _terminations_ confirmed?”

Tulmiaq makes a sound in the back of his throat, like he’d forgotten about it.

“You put on your glasses, if they’re not on already, and look at the body. HQ has a live video feed when they’re activated, gives a fair handful of witnesses to testament to the target’s death. If not, usually they’ll wait for word to get out about someone’s fate, or trust the agents’ word on it.” He chuckles darkly.

“Used to be you’d use the pocket watch to take a photo. Had to wait until you’d made the journey back to HQ where the image could be developed, only problem with that is agents aren’t hired for their photography skills, so the photos were atrocious. Mind you, the lens was pretty shit and you couldn’t see where the camera was pointing. Some didn’t even have time to take the photo because all hell had broken loose. And those who’d shot a target from long distances had no chance in hell of getting a photo.

“It was difficult, back then, to convince the coordinator you’d done the job when the only proof of it was a blurry picture of something that _could_ be a corpse of someone who _might_ have been the target.”

He shrugs. “The move to the glasses and live feed was a needed one, I’ll tell you that much.”

The skiing continues, but instead of plummeting down bunny hills, Tulmiaq has them learning how to be passable in combat on them. They went at a pace even Lance struggled to keep up with, as you had to much more into account, but the thrill of having to be quick and efficient was more than worth it.

* * *

“Underwater missions are different in that they’re usually tacked on to the end of the others. Maybe you’ll use the rebreather to infiltrate an area via the water, or an agent has to swim to a yacht in the ocean. Any time you operate in the water, forever how long, it’ll have an underwater classification so the tech labs and dry cleaners know what to outfit you with.”

“How many are purely underwater?” Asks a woman in the middle of the group. Velma Dunmore, Lance’s mind supplies belatedly.

“Oh, very few.” Tulmiaq responds, shaking his head. “It’s difficult to maintain any sort of submerged base undetected, and traversing the environment is difficult considering you have to be slow with ascents, lest the nitrogen in your body start to bubble. On the rare occasion a mission’s completely underwater, they're given to senior agents with plenty of experience diving and a reputation for keeping a level head. None of you juniors will be going fifty-thousand leagues any time soon.”

* * *

While Ada begrudgingly stayed away from the main cabin during these talks, she was more than happy to help during field work. Namely being the bad guy and dragging one trainee along the back of a snowmobile while the other had to ski up to it and cut them free. Her cackling did not help Lance as snow was forced down his back and Tristan struggled to catch up.

“Dead drops are easy things. Usually given to junior agents just starting out on the job to give them a feel for what to do, and so senior agents aren’t wasting their time on menial tasks like that.”

“HTUV uses it as an umbrella term for any kind of information exchange, be it person to person, or collecting a stick from a hollowed out rock. It’s not accurate but I have a feeling Director Flint wanted the OSS off his back about paperwork and such.” Tulmiaq chuckles at that. Director Quinten Flint was Director Wallace’s predecessor. Long dead now, his legacy still remains in HTUV’s robust filing system. 

They’d moved on to scaling the different cliff faces, using the spikes and ropes similar to what they had to use when scaling ship hulls, but more heavy duty to dig into the rock. When the candidates had reached the end of their final climb, Tulmiaq and Ada held a race to the bottom.

Usually, Lance is all for races, and being the winner of said races, but there was no groomed track to ski down this hill. Black rock jutted up, bare of snow and ice, the occasional tree spearing up from the ground, and sudden drops in the ice made it all the more hazardous.

It probably shouldn’t have been a surprise that the two people who lived up here would win the race. If Lance had the courage to look up, he would’ve taking the time to admire how they cut through the powdery terrain with practiced ease. But at the time, Lance was more focused on getting down in one piece than focusing on other people. There were a few moments where he’d be airborne after launching himself off sudden drop offs, and the resulting heart attacks would be enough to age him several years.

But Lance is a pragmatic man and counts it as a personal victory that he made it down before his friends did. Mainly Tristan, who slid as slowly as he could down the treacherous terrain.

* * *

“Extraction missions are some of the more high stakes, alongside infiltration and interference. It ranges from removing a mole from their mission, to tracking down missing or rogue agents, to a full blown rescue operation.” Tulmiaq pauses and tilts his head up to the ceiling, pulling his lips back in a smile.

“Shit, I remember in 1970, my first year as a junior agent, we’d been assigned a dead drop pickup from an HTUV informant, down in Ecuador. It was supposed to be a simple collection, HTUV was expecting a disc on local cartel activity. All we got was a bloodstained note saying _ayuda_ \- help.

“We got in contact with HQ as quickly as possible, they set us up with a coordinator and rushed us through tracking down the informant. Told us this mission had been reclassified to mole extraction, possible hostage rescue. Took us maybe three hours tops to find him in some basement beneath a barber’s ship. Both hands were cut off and it looked like the grunts were aiming to take the skin off his face, too.

“My partner shot the one with the machete, I took care of the other two.” Tulmiaq’s gaze falls to the floor in though. He unconsciously rubs the tattoo across the bridge of his nose. “He, the informant I mean, was already in shock. We tourniquet what we could, rushed him out of there to the hospital… but I think he died there, in our arms as we got climbed out of the basement.”

Tulmiaq’s face screws up as he sucks on his teeth.

“He almost made it. Didn’t, in the end. Never did get that disc, either.

“That was my first real mission seeing lethal combat, too. First time I’d killed someone.” Tulmiaq taps the tattoo. “That’s what this means. Got it after I resigned from being a field agent. Would’ve gotten it sooner if it weren’t so easy to identify.”

* * *

The aforementioned Infiltration and Interference missions involve sneaking into enemy buildings, territories, or compounds undetected. From there the agents planted bugs, stole files, terminated targets, or impersonated faculty to further worm their way into areas they wouldn’t be able to reach conventionally.

Interference was, informally, about foiling a bad guy’s evil plan. Be it through sabotage, a full on raid, or a pair of agents wreaking havoc on weapons, equipment, research, or small armies. As long as the red counter didn’t reach zero, or the big beam of light in the sky puttered out and the earth didn’t shatter in the fallout, it was a successful mission.

“Recon missions are either gonna be the most boring fucking things you could ever be assigned to or the reason you’re grey by thirty. Sometimes it’s just heading to coordinates and setting up some kind of monitoring device or staking out an area and checking in with HQ every couple of days. Other times it’s tracking enemies, searching for possible weak points, figuring out the layout of the land. Even some interrogations fall under the recon category, depending on the nature of the information.”

“Universally, though, the intensity of the mission increases with the more experience you have. None of you will be expected to be infiltrating a Triad hideout or assassinating a cult leader in your first year, you’re too green to properly handle those kinds of missions.”

One evening, Tulmiaq has them out onto the tundra to learn navigation by the starts. While Beau had taught them the basics, the Atchafalaya was too densely wooded for most of the candidates to properly utilise it during their field test.

But here, under the blazing gaze of a gibbous moon, the stars stretched to every corner of Lance’s vision. To numerous and brilliant they made him dizzy to look at. When he took the time to pause and really look up at that great expanse, Lance felt a great sense of melancholy. Like he was back in that motel in Arizona, staring up at the sky and letting the stars keeping him company where his recently deceased mother could no longer.

Tristan calls for Lance to catch up with them and Lance is back on the tundra, the sad kid in the motel returning to the quiet corners of his mind.

* * *

“These aren’t really acknowledged in any official capacity, but field agents use different titles for different groups of people on missions, helps with clarity and all that.” Tulmiaq starts.

“Every criminal organisation has its rookies; Wiseguys, Bratok, 49ers, Halcones, Shatei – the list goes on. They’re usually kids with something to prove, rash, inexperienced. They don’t know what real fight is and you’ll use that to your advantage. Don’t bother with holding them hostage unless we know for certain their boss is benevolent. Just get them out of your way.”

“For ease and such, we just call them grunts; lights, mids, and heavies depending on how threatening they appear. Go off things like physical stature, quality of equipment, their observed spot in the pecking order.”

As they work through drills and scenarios in the tundra, in fake concrete buildings cracked from ice that had seeped into the pores over the years, Lance acquaints himself with their terms.

“Got a heavy over there.”

“It’s just Ada with a flamethrower.”

“Uh huh.”

“Wait holy shit, _who gave her a flamethrower_.”

“Does that instructor look like a light or a mid to you?”

“I really can’t fucking tell with all those layers.”

“My money’s on mid.”

“You’re both wrong, they’re just monitoring the training grounds. The targets are over there you dolts.”

Lance doesn’t know how long it took for these identifiers to evolve into what they are today, if coordinators even know what the agents are talking about as they pick their way through the shadows, muttering to each other in hushed tones. Still, more effective than saying ‘seven guys here’, in his opinion.

* * *

“Then you’ve got your toymakers, creators of mass destruction and the like. More often than not they can be bargained with, no point in killing a genius when you make them work for us.”

Tulmiaq tells them of the time he’d worked with a bioengineer who had been experimenting on people, harvesting their motor neurones to hook up to prosthetics in an attempt to make them more receptive to delicate movements. Originally HTUV had given him and his partner the order to execute them on sight, as they were responsible for the kidnapping of a diplomat’s nephew.

They didn’t find much left of the nephew, but HTUV liked what the toymaker had so far, and offered clemency in exchange for their research and cooperation for however long HTUV deemed necessary. Tulmiaq had no idea what happened after they were dropped off at the European HQ for processing, as him and his partner were back on a plane to Washington DC for debrief.

* * *

“Lone wolves can be anyone who works alone, a merc, a serial killer, a renegade agent, that sort of type. Can never really tell how interactions with them can lead to, one moment you may be working together forwards a shared goal, the next they’re trying to put a knife in your back because they just got bought by the highest bidder.”

“Then there’s Dragons and Big Bads, the ones calling the shots. Oftentimes the Dragon’ll be in charge onsite while the Big Bad’s safe in their mansion. You’d be surprised how many times we’ve managed to take down criminal groups by convincing the Dragon to usurp their boss – then we come in for the final blow while they’re not looking.”

Tulmiaq frowns, remembering a mission in the Phillipines that’d probably get him arrested for disclosing to non-approved members of staff. He sighs, pushing awful memories of small, mutilated bodies into that dark corner of his head again.

“I’m not gonna lie to any of you – these missions HTUV assigns are underhanded, unethical, dangerous, and merciless. They have to be. _You_ have to be. The world counts on us to beat back the shadows.”

* * *

Someone remembers Frog’s story about a deep sea mission, hunting a traitor.

“And what about rogue agents?”

Tulmiaq’s face goes flinty as his lips twist into a slight snarl, fingers digging into his arms.

“They’re traitors. Rabid dogs tearing at the throats of good people. It’s not just our job, but our _responsibility_ to put them down. Permanently. Understand there is very little leniency for turncoats. While a mission may start with the intention of bringing them in alive, I assure you that it rarely ends like that.

“HTUV doesn’t train agents to surrender or just give up, and that doesn’t go away when they decide to work for the wrong people. Better just to put a bullet between their eyes before they can do the same to you.”

Tulmiaq’s sudden intensity had startled Lance. While he still comes across as a serious man, there was never that strong undercurrent of personal anger that’s now roiling beneath the surface. But then again, Tulmiaq had been a field agent for two decades. A betrayal like that must have happened at some point in his career.

Tulmiaq’s words stuck with them throughout the end of the second week. Lance found himself frowning as he thought about how he would react to a turncoat, especially if it were one of his friends.

How could he live with that?

* * *

“Okay, Mr Wallace. And do you feel anything when I do this?”

Is there supposed to be something happening? They’re looking at him like it already has. Oh no.

“… No.”

“Hm. Alright. I’m going to run my pen up both legs. Tell me if you can feel it.”

It’s been a week since he woke up. His lower body is a numb, aching mess cradled in a thick cast to support his healing pelvis. It’d been an open, unstable fracture, the nurses told him. He’s lucky that hadn’t killed him right off the bat with a severed femoral artery.

“Jason? Did you feel anything?”

“Oh, uh. I- can you do it again, please?” the doctor hums in affirmation.

It’s faint, so faint. But he can feel a ghost of a sensation, like he’s wearing a jacket and someone’s running their finger over his arm. He tells them this much.

“You may have retained some sensory function, then. I fear you’ve lost most, if not all, motor function though. The spinal fracture was along the thoracic spine and there was pretty severe damage to the central nervous system in that area. When you’re a couple more weeks into your inpatient rehab, we’ll have more MRIs done to make sure.”

With that, doctors and nurses move on to the next patient, a small gaggle of medical interns puttering on behind them. leaving him to his own devices. Which didn’t amount to much considering he was confined to the bed, unable to even take a piss on his own.

A TV buzzes in the corner and Jason tries to watch it, his mind too fuddled (with pain, withdrawal, morphine, agony, grief, rage, fear, regret, pain) to be able to read. After an unknown time slugged on, a nurse coming in to empty the bag connecting to his catheter and take down his vitals, a soft knock is heard from the doorway.

Of all the people to visit him, Jason never would have expected Frog of all people to show up. He doesn’t know how to feel when he looks up, expecting his mom to be there but only to have dark, almond shaped eyes look down at him with so much pity it makes him feel ill.

“Why are _you_ here?” He hadn’t meant to come across as so hostile, but he’s on such a small dosage of morphine that it’s ineffective in combating his pain, leaving a constant, piercing buzz just beneath his skin. 

Frog doesn’t seem particularly perturbed, shrugging and taking the seat beside his bed.

“Figured you could do with some company.” She says simply, crossing one leg over the other. Jason stares at her, not sure how to respond.

It was true but…

Why weren’t his family here? Why was a stranger, with no connection to the Wallaces, taking their place?

“Stay with me kid, you’re spiraling.” Frog shocks him out of his deep-set frown with a level voice. “We don’t have to say much, don’t have to talk at all. But I think you need more of a presence than just the nurses and such. I dunno if anyone else has been here to visit, just felt like I should.”

“I don’t care.” Jason mutters, frowning at his cast. Frog chuckles.

“Then you shouldn’t mind me taking up some space here.” Frog looks around, whistling. “Nice setup for a hospital room. They’ve got you in your own room and everything instead of the ICU.”

Jason shrugs and stares at the TV in the corner of the room, watching subtitles fly by. He’d been moved from ICU because there was no longer the fear that he’d die overnight, and he knew the money for this room was coming from somewhere, so maybe his family’s just waiting until he’s strong enough to be moved to DC to visit him.

To Jason’s left, 8-bit music plays loudly and obnoxiously. Frog sits in the chair by his bed, playing on her GameBoy with a look of intense focus.

Video games were never his thing, growing up he’d been more interested in books if he’d have to stay inside. But it’s been a week of staring at the same four walls with tubes sticking out of him and being unable to move. He itched in his own skin, and his traitorous mind couldn’t help but fixate on the upbeat music and clacking plastic buttons.

“Can’t exactly bring this thing down with me on missions.” She says, feeling Jason’s eyes on her. “So I may as well play it in my off time.” The sound of Mario meeting his untimely demise rings out from the handheld device and Frog scowls at the screen, cursing under her breath. Jason bites the inside of his cheeks to stop from smiling.

Nope. Not enjoying her company at all.

“Have you ever played Super Mario Brothers?”

Jason turns to her, a brow raised.

“No.”

Frog holds the GameBoy out to him.

“… Would you like to?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i based Tulmiaq's special brand of story telling off how my dad used to recount his time in the SAS, which was mostly "So anyways, here's warcrimes, eat your lasagna" 
> 
> Frog is aiming to make jason a gamer by the spring, will she make it? see and find out next time on, disgustingly long will smith pigeon fanfiction
> 
> Also also also! Just in case the 1970 part was a bit vague, Tulmiaq graduated the same year as Gila and Lance's mom ;)


	25. Phase V - (part iii)

**Final Week**

Instead of morning training, the candidates are taken to the main cabin, one pair at a time. Then the Aaquluatchiaq would roar to life and disappear in a seemingly random diraction. It would return anywhere from twenty minutes to two hours later to repeat the process.

When Lance and Tristan are finally called into the main cabin, they stand in the middle of the room. All the furniture had been pushed to the sides. A whiteboard was pushed in front the map of Desolation Sound, the impression of red marker still present from where it had been erased after previous presentations.

Ada sits on a couch in the back as Tulmiaq walks to the board, a small sheaf of paper in hand.

“Before we begin, I want to congratulate the two of you for getting this far. HTUV will only accept the best, and you've proven yourselves worthy of that regard.”

Lance feels a surge of pride from Tulmiaq’s words and he straightens unconsciously. To his right, Tristan’s chest puffs out minutely.

“This final test is a mock-mission. You two are tasked with finding and infiltrating the enemy compound in this area.” He gestures to the westernmost part of the map, circling it with his index finger. “You’ll be dropped off via bush plane about fifty miles east of it, and will have to find your way there. Enter the facility and find the intelligence. Escape without being captured and make your way to the extraction point, which will be made known to you upon completing the mission.”

Tulmiaq moves to the side of the room and drags two large packs in front of Lance and Tristan.

“This is the standard gear we supply candidates.”

He begins taking apart one of them and listing the different pieces of equipment and tools as he goes. “Flask, combat knife, tinderbox, bivouac sack, sleeping bag, flashlight, flares, emergency first aid kit, sleeping pad, compass, tarp, bear spray. Shouldn’t have to use that last one, considering the area you’re in. But, hey, better safe than mauled by an apex predator.”

Tulmiaq packs the bag with practiced efficiency as Ada hands them large bundles of clothing.

“You’ll also be wearing different gear for this mission.” She starts. “Polypropylene inner layer to wick away any moisture, polyester intermediate layer for insulation, and a Gore-tex outer layer to protect against the climate. They’ll be stuffy as all hell while you’re waiting in the plane and walking for hours on end, but they’ll keep your inner body temp from falling below ninety-seven the rest of the week.” 

Lance unfolds his bundle, catching the balaclava and gloves that fall from it. The two quietly change into the thicker clothing as Tulmiaq tapes up several pictures.

A squat cement building encircled by steep slopes and forest, two people dressed in strange body armour that covers them from head to toe. Not unlike what the interrogators had worn during their time in the basement, but thicker and meant to protect rather than conceal. Different places of interest like enemy safehouses and notable landmarks to orientate themselves with.

“These aggressors,” Tulmiaq gestures to the photo of the people, “wear special armour that’ll allow you to engage them as if they were real life enemies without actually endangering their lives.”

Ada, who had slipped out of the room when Tulmiaq was talking, returns from the equipment shack carrying two weapons cases.

“Considering this isn’t an actual mission,” he says, as Ada hands them the guns. “And finding good help is tedious work these days, you’ll be using the same airsoft guns you’ve been training with the past two weeks.

“They’re full of red dye, so you’ll know if something’s been hit. They have the same specs as their more fatal counterparts, pack a hefty punch and make a lot of noise when fired.” Tulmiaq nods to Tristan. “Because you’re one of Gila’s snipers, you get to use one of the long range rifles.”

Tristan’s eyebrows shoot up before quickly lowering, the only indication of his excitement. Both were given replicas of the HTUV handguns, with suppressor . As Lance hefted the fake Beretta M9 in his hand, it felt indistinguishable from the real deal.

In addition to this, Tristan was handed a large rifle that went up to his ribs, a replica Barrett M82. He grimaces, remember how heavy the damn thing was, and how far he’d have to lug it. The two straighten as Tulmiaq looks them over, nodding with finality.

“There will be other agents in the area as well, interact with them to the extent you feel appropriate. This mission is considered a high level infiltration, all enemies are believed to be hostile. Complete this mission by any means necessary, lethal force is advised.

“Alright then.” He says, putting his hands on his hips. “That’s the briefing. If it were back at HQ, there’d be a fair more screens to look at and supplementary information.”

He shrugs.

“Our training’s good, but it’s not perfect.”

With that, Tulmiaq and Ada leave the cabin, Lance and Tristan in tow.

* * *

The sharp winter air seeps through the rivets and seams of the _Aaquluatchiaq,_ chilling the interior. Lance doesn’t feel the cold, instead shivering from anticipation, excitement, dread. _This is it_. The final test, the last barrier between him and becoming a field agent.

The ride across the tundra is quiet but for the roar of the bush plane’s engine and the occasional chatter between pilots. Lance shrugs on his parachute as they near the drop zone, as notified by Ada over the din. He looks up at Tristan, who gives him a sharp nod before returning to checking over their gear. There’s no need for them to talk to the instructors, they already know what they have to do.

With one final glance between each other, Lance and Tristan cling to the rails along the bush plane. Lance squeezes the rail in parting as he pushes off the side, air streaming in between his fingers, as the force of the plummet fills his stomach with jittery butterflies. Beside him, he can just about hear Tristan’s delighted whooping.

They reach the ground in a plume of scattered snow, packing up the parachutes as small ice crystals skittered across the hardened snow. Lance squints against the wind, looking up at the _Aaquluatchiaq_ as it fades off into the dark sky, taking its roaring engines with it. Soon, the only sound is the whispering tundra around them.

“Well.” Starts Tristan, bracing himself with a deep breath. “Let’s get on with this, shall we?”

The ground is hard enough that Lance and Tristan can walk normally, for now. Snow crunches underfoot as they huff through their many layers of clothing. Lance’s gaze shifts from his compass to Tristan’s back, hefting his gun to get a better grip on it.

“So,” Lance starts, breaking through the half-hour silence. “Ever thought you’d be trekking through Alaska, armed to the teeth with fake weaponry?”

Tristan hums through puffing breaths.

“No, probably not. Have a feeling I’d still be in the army, working my way the engineering corps. You?”

Lance shrugs, even though Tristan can’t see.

“Probably would’ve joined the marines or something. Never really wanted to go to college or anything.”

“Oh? Why not? You’re smart enough for it.”

“Nah, it’s not for me. I’ve always been more practical, and I’ve always wanted to be an agent like mom was.”

“Well, seven days and you’ll be there, mate.”

Lance grins, boots digging into the shin-high snow. Hopefully the rest of the journey is as calm as this, despite the way the wind claws over crusted snow and the ever hanging fear of failure looms over them.

* * *

They make camp in the shelter of a large snow drift that blocks out the worst of the wind. The skin of Lance’s hands pull tight as he flexes them in front of the fire, dry from wearing gloves all day. To his left, Tristan checks over his gear, pulling apart the rifle and scraping away gathered ice crystals. In between them, on the tarp, lies the magazine for the guns.

The pellets are shaped like bullets of their corresponding calibres. In the large cartridge of the pellets was thick red dye, upon impact they’ll burst and splatter over the target. Lance hefts a .50 BMG in one hand, feeling the weight of it.

Meant to cover hundreds of meters in seconds, the bullet is longer than his palm and twice the thickness of his thumb. The 9mm cartridges for their handgun are dwarfed by it. The smaller bullets roll about in his palm as he stares at them, red ink sloshing about despite the chill.

“You alright there, Lance?” Tristan’s voice snatches Lance out of his trance.

“Yeah, just admiring HTUV’s training equipment.” He replies, slotting them back in their magazines. “This one’s huge.” He says, holding the .50 BMG between his thumb and index finger. “Don’t even need to shoot it from a gun, just throw it at someone and it’ll knock them out.”

Tristan lets out a chuckle, taking the bullet from Lance.

“Shit, you should see the damage this thing can do.” He says, rolling it between his fingers absentmindedly. “When Xiao and I were being trained, back in Phase Three, the targets were these ballistic gel dummies with walls set up behind them. I thought it was so we could see them easier, turns out it was to stop the bullet after it made a fine mist out of the dummies.”

Tristan holds the bullet up to the fire, the red ink inside becoming more vivid. “Wonder what it can do to a living person.”

They’re quiet then, packing away the remaining cartridges and starting on their food – steak flavoured MREs that came out a misshapen grey lump with scattered orange chunks. Lance’s face instinctively curls up in disgust.

“Most technologically advanced organisation in the world and they still can’t make MREs look good, huh?” Tristan quips upon seeing Lance’s expression. Lance swallows a shiver, taking his half of the ration with a sense of grief.

“This better not give me some obscure, long term illness.”

“Considering the sheer amount of these things we’ll have to consume this week, that’s not _not_ a possibility.”

“Hey, I’ll pay for your colonoscopy if you pay for mine.”

Tristan barks out a laugh, poking his meal with a fork.

“Deal.”

* * *

Their trek across the Alaskan landscape steals all meaning of time from them; seconds too slow and hours too fast for the present, the _real_ present. Clocks have little power over trees and bears and melting ice and a sun that refuses to show its face in December. And soon it loses its hold over Lance and Tristan as they pick their way through the crusted ice, headlamps illuminating the way.

* * *

Both men are at their peak, young and physically healthy, neither seem to notice the many hours tick by. Sure, their thighs and lungs burn from the exertion, shoulders sore from the weight of their packs and feet beginning to go numb as the chill seeps into their boots. But by the time they make camp again, they’ve cleared over fifteen miles.

It’s not so much sleep as it is a chance for their eyes and bodies to rest, a cold winds scrap over their tarps and a distant animal call sounds out across the tundra like a wailing ghost. Lance nestles deeper into his sleeping bag after a particularly nasty draft snatches its way down his neck.

Soon, they rise once again. Dusting the thin layer of snow that had accumulated on top of them before rolling up their sleeping gear and returning to the trek. Steadfast and trance-like, two silent agents walk headfirst into the gathering snowstorm.

* * *

By the time Lance blinks the last of the fat snowflakes out of his eyelashes, the stars have changed positions in the sky and the faint hue of an Alaskan dawn begins to make itself known. The two slump onto the snow, not bothering to shrug off their bags until after they’d hit the ground. Lance’s yawn cracks his jaw and Tristan sniffles as he checks over their weapons and munitions.

The hour or so of weak sunlight passes and the two settle down for their next meal beside a frozen river, nestled in between two sloping cliffs. As Lance pokes at a chunk of what could be carrot, but probably isn’t, Tristan suddenly speaks in a tone Lance has never heard come from him.

“ _Woah_.”

Lance whips his head to where his partner sits. Tristan’s head is tilted up at the sky, eyes wide with an almost childlike wonder, meal forgotten on his lap. Lance follows his gaze upwards.

Spectral green lights dance across the sky, trying to touch the mountaintops but almost afraid to, in the way it darts back and forth between the earth and space. It should be blinding from how vibrant the colours are, but yet they’re merciful enough to let something as small and insignificant as two humans see them in their brilliant hues. Lance smiles softly, leaning back on his elbows to get a better view of the sky, eyes glued to the spirits above.

“Never thought I’d get to see something like this.” He remarks, refusing to blink away from the lights, half afraid that if he does, he’ll miss something important.

“Completely forgot the northern lights bloody existed until now.” Tristan whispers, as if the borealis is a creature that could be scared away from their voices.

They sit there like that for a little while, a great green dragon dancing across the sky, while the fire crackles on, and puffs of white steam escapes their mouths with each breath. Despite everything, Lance feels a sense of tranquillity wash over him. He almost misses Tristan’s quiet words.

“Happy new year.”

“Don’t think we’ve been out here that long, dude.”

Neither of them are looking at the other. Despite this, Lance knows that Tristan shrugs before continuing.

“Yeah, but we’ll probably be too focused on the mission when it does roll around to really appreciate it. So, happy new year.”

There’s a lot of things that can end the world in seven days, if given the chance. Computer bug, nuclear war, economic collapse, natural disasters, a villain who wins. How many agents are on missions at this very moment? Fighting against the clock while everyone else simply waits for ’99 to become ’00.

Hopefully the agents succeed, whoever they are, and the world doesn’t end before Lance and Tristan have the chance to save it.

* * *

Tristan glares at the compass as they trudge through the snow, foothills beginning to rise from the ground as the tundra shrinks away from arboreal mountains. It would almost be serene if not for his travelling partner, who saw fit to give the entire state of Alaska his rendition of _Good Vibrations_.

_I’m pickin up good vibrations_

_She’s giving me the excitations_

Lance’s voice suddenly increases in pitch to sing the other part, Tristan winces as it pierces his eardrums. Maybe if he wasn’t half out of breath from the walking it would sound nice, but right now it just makes Tristan wish for something to interrupt Lance’s singing, a charging polar bear, a sudden avalanche, a group of bad guys on snowmobiles. _Anything_.

_Doo doo doo, good vibrations!_

Tristan grimaces. Asshole doesn’t even know the lyrics.

* * *

They have to go off course when Tristan recognises fresh tracks from a snowmobile heading in the same direction as them.

“Hopefully that means we’re on the right track.” Lance mutters, as they hike up a steep incline while keeping close to the ground, depending on their winter camo to hide them. Tristan shushes him as he helps Lance up the final crest of the hill, motioning to follow his lead as he crawls along the ground.

Looking over the lip of the hill, in the dip between increasingly larger inclines, sits a squat cement building not unlike the compound they’re meant to infiltrate. Only this one is much smaller and has large, square openings cut out of some of the walls.

It’s not too far that Lance can’t see figures inside. But he can only see the motion of their helmets as their heads move about.

Without taking his eyes off the area below, Tristan slowly unholsters his gun. Careful not to alert suspicion, he keeps it level with the ground and stays flat on his front as he brings the scope up to his eye.

Knowing Tristan’s peripheral vision had just gone out the window, Lance pays attention to the surrounding area, watching for any movements or sounds that would give away any lurking bad guys in the area.

“Lance.” Tristan whispers, face set in steely blankness. “Rachel n’ Jesse are in there.”

“Shit.” He hisses, and is immediately thankful for the snow insulating sound. “What’s it look like?”

“They’re on chairs, looking pretty bored. Got two fake guards, one by the far window and the other by the entryway. There’s no snowmobiles but there’s tracks, so there’s more of ‘em out there.” Lance grunts, inching further towards the edge of the cliff.

“Take it we’ve gotta go save their asses.”

Tristan snorts.

“Obviously.” He frowns as one of the bad guys in the building jerks in their direction. Nothing else happens but Tristan knows they’re running out of time. “Sneak down the hill, go around and when I give the signal, deal with the one by the doorway.”

Tristan hears the shift of snow and the absence of presence as Lance slinks off without a word. There’s no time for quips and back and forth right now.

Carefully, Tristan aligns the sights so the crosshairs aim at the window bad guy’s centre mass. The black landscape goes green once more as the night-vision lens focuses on the scene below. Due to the body armour, Tristan doubts the shots from his fake rifle will be lethal. Regardless, he stays away from the neck and head. Because of the downwards angle, that centre of mass is the space between their shoulder blades. It’s finicky, but he’ll make it work.

Tristan clears his lungs of air, letting his eyelids relax and taking three careful breaths to give Lance time to move into position.

On the final exhale, he squeezes the trigger.

Red ink explodes outwards as the force of the shot knocks the target to the ground. The windowsill of the building spattered with fake blood. Even from here, he can hear Jesse’s loud cursing as she reels back from the falling guard.

As Tristan draws in another breath, refusing to let the thrill of the shot get to him just yet, he sees the other guard fall to a spatter of Lance’s carbine gunfire. Despite not actually being killed, both targets stay on the ground, thick red ink running onto the floor. He sees one of them give Jesse a thumbs up when she bends down and asks them something.

He watches Lance run into the compound, glancing behind him as he does. He sees the three speak, Jesse has a huge grin on her face and Rachel hangs her head in relief, rubbing her wrists after Lance cuts away the bonds. Lance tells them something with wildly moving hands before pointing up the slope where Tristan lies. Jesse shoots him a thumbs up and Rachel smiles, nodding up in his direction.

* * *

“Nice shooting, Tex.” Quips Jesse when the four of them reconvene some miles away from the compound, picking their way across the landscape, alert for anyone following them.

Tristan shrugs, unconsciously hefting his rifle further up his shoulder.

“Happy to help, looked like you needed it.”

Rachel groans.

“We fell asleep before putting out the fire, turns out we were too close to that compound and some guards went to investigate. Shook us awake and told us to come with them. We were sitting in the chairs all night until you two showed up.”

“They were very polite kidnappers.” Jesse adds. “But man, my back is killing me.” She tries and fails to twist and stretch her back out, large bag rattling with the motion.

They share a chuckle, walking on and recounting their journey up until that moment. Neither had encountered much in the way of enemies, only snow and ice and wind. Rachel imagine that’ll change the further west they walk, the closer they get to the final compound.

Of course, they had to _get there_ first.

“Okay, no, the author is known for her more grimdark endings. Just because this one is more open, doesn’t mean it’s good. Considering all his other books, it makes sense that this one is also going to be tragic.”

“Dude, just because the author tends to write sadder, darker stories doesn’t mean this one has to be. It’s like a light at the end of a tunnel, hope in Pandora’s box; the characters deserve a happy ending and I think they get it.”

Rachel scoffs at Lance’s analysis. Neither of them had come to an agreement over the ending of a book neither of them had read in months. This had led to multiple discussions, bordering on arguments.

“But if you’d read the unofficial prequel to it, then you’d know…”

Tristan sighs, rolling eyes and trying to block them out. He rolls his head to Jesse, who wears a similarly unimpressed expression.

“You have any idea what they’re saying?”

“I refuse to comprehend nuance, or understand literature, of any sort.” Jesse responds, staring out into the horizon as Rachel and Lance make the same points over and over again for several miles.

Their chatter and occasional song fades away as they have to actively avoid patrolling guards on foot and snowmobile. While there’s enough warning from the roaring engine of the latter, the four had been caught off guard by the former more than once. The ensuing scuffles always raising the concern they’d alerted nearby targets of their position.

Their first rest in fifteen hours comes in the form of them sleeping in tree wells, using the boughs as a shield from the outside world. While their rest is fitful from the lack of a proper campfire, the four are just happy to rest; memories of Limbo resurfacing.

“Wonder how Piotr n’ Moira are, right now.” Jesse mutters, sitting in her sleeping bag. “Probably somewhere with heating, and real food, and coffee.”

“Pete should be finished with the Tern plane, back to working on his degree.” Tristan adds, unfocused gaze staring off into the packed snow.

“And Moira’s gonna be yelling at some junior agent for not listening to her.” Rachel says with a fond smile. “Despite her only having started a couple months ago.” 

“Wonder what she’ll be like directing our missions.” Lance muses, shoving cold fingers under his armpits after scratching at his three-week old beard.

“Knowing us, we’ll piss her off enough to the point where she’ll drop all connections. Let us sort it out for ourselves.” Chuckles Tristan. The others respond with their own tired snorts before hunkering down for the night, the distant bray of engines calling out into the darkness.

* * *

They don’t know it, but it’s on the sixth day that they reach the compound. After six hours of travelling - including a terror inducing belly crawl along the crackling ice of a frozen river - their target makes itself known. Snow piles on the flat, rectangular roof in thick clumps; grey concrete striking in its uniformity against the sprawling shapes of the surrounding mountains.

Guards patrol the building and the whir of snowmobiles can be heard in the near distance.

“So what’re the odds they just let us in.” Lance mutters, frowning as he peers at the building, picking it apart for weaknesses.

“You can go down there and try, we’ll stay up here.” Responds Tristan, counting the guards and noting their positions.

Rachel’s eyes flick across the compound, and then the surrounding embankment they stand on.

“We’ll fan out along this ridge, try and get an idea of guard movement and the entrances. Maybe even a getaway vehicle for when things get hairy.” She suggests, tracing a hand along the curve of the hills. It slopes sharply downwards, with maybe three meters of flat ground between it and the compound. “Try not to fall, though. Doubt any of us can climb it without alerting anyone.”

The four had discovered four key things in the half hour of careful reconnaissance.

One: there were two entrances, on opposite sides of the compound.

Two: there was only ever one guard at the entrances.

Three: there was a small shelter built onto the main building, housing snowmobiles underneath.

And four: there was room for other snowmobiles and tracks beside the ones that were there. There were other guards, possibly on patrol, and could return at any minute.

That last point gave an edge of urgency to their mission. The intelligence was inside and they had to act quickly to avoid detection and possible failure. Rachel’s plan was for them to sneak in, grab the objective, sneak out and disappear into the woods, bad guys none the wiser. Only problem was Tristan was having none of it.

“We’ll waste too much time covering our arses trying to go completely unnoticed. We don’t have any proper equipment that’d help with stealth, and the clock’s ticking on, whether or not this plan succeeds.”

“Then what do you suggest, McFord.” Replies Rachel, more snappish than usual from her frayed nerves. Tristan holds up a hand to pacify her.

“We’ve got the weapons and the element of surprise. Why don’t we glass the place? Eliminate all targets before they can call for help or fight back, grab the intelligence, steal a snowmobile and get the hell out of there.”

Lance and Jesse immediately object to it, saying it’s excessive, that it’s not realistic, that they can’t possibly wipe out the compound without knowing how many people are actually in it.

With a calm voice, Tristan tells them it’s expected of them to complete a mission by any means necessary, that they’ve been trained to use lethal force for a year now and this is well within their capabilities.

“It’s not like we’re going in there, guns blazing. We do it quiet like, with the suppressed Berettas. Take it one room at a time, a pair to each entrance. If we’re methodical, slow about it, it’s feasible. Helluva a lot faster than going proper ghost.”

As they debate this, Rachel listens with a thoughtful expression, gaze fixed to the snow in thought.

“Tristan, man, c’mon this isn’t some movie where they’ll just pass out when we shoot them.” Lance starts, exasperated.

Only to be cut off by Rachel’s firm voice.

“No. That’s exactly what they’ll do because this is a fake mission, and they’re acting. There’s probably some kind of HTUV tech hooked up to their armour, lets them know if a hit is fatal.

Rachel sighs, looking up at the group with a determined frown. Her voice ringing with finality.

“Tristan’s right, we don’t have the time to take it slow and undetected. But we do have the skill to terminate anyone in our way, can even do it silently if we work together. We won’t go out of our way to clean the place out, but we’ll eliminate any guard that we come across.”

She straightens, looking at the other three. Jesse and Lance hesitate, considering her words. Tristan catches her eye, nodding once before turning back to his scope.

“Well, shit. If Rachel thinks it’s a good idea, may as well try.” Says Jesse, rubbing the back of her neck. Lance nods, sighing.

“Yeah, alright. Let’s see how this turns out.”

* * *

The face of a waning moon beats white light against their backs as the four agents slide down the slope, watchful for any onlookers as they descend.

The pack splits, one half darting left towards the front entrance, while the other goes right – towards the snowmobile shelter.

The dark shapes weave around the corners, taking the breath of a second to glimpse around at the guard, who doesn’t notice them.

Simultaneously they dart out from the corner, one going wide. The guard steps back in shock at the sudden action, but that’s all they can do.

Too distracted by one agent to react to the other, the guard’s legs are swept out from under them and their HUD flashes red as the edge of a knife digs into the armour around their throat.

The guard goes slack in Tristan’s grip, who drags them into the shadow of the building, against the wall. Lance peers into the building by the crack in the doorway. He nods at Tristan as he returns, readying himself to enter the building.

Two doors creak open on opposite sides of the compound, too quiet to alert any of the enemies inside. The cold, seeping darkness of the concrete hall is interrupted by slivers of light from underneath closed doors, signifying the targets’ locations.

Lance squints against the darkness, he can just about make out the shape of doors on either side of him. The hallway branches off, one going to the left while the other shoots straight. Any indication of what’s further on ahead is swallowed by the darkness.

Tristan’s head swivels from side to side, looking between both doors. He turns to Lance, jerking his head to the left. Lance nods, holding up his suppressed Beretta. They crouch-walk to either side of the door, Tristan leaning forward to grab the handle while Lance braces himself.

Tristan pushes the door open, Lance weaves inside, gun at the ready.

The room is pitch black, hiding from the spotlight of the moon; humming with void. There’s nothing here. Same as the room across from it.

Before the two can leave the second room, light pierces in from the hallway, temporarily blinding the four infiltrators who had grown accustomed to the dark. Flattening himself against the wall and blinking away the dancing spots in his vision, Tristan hears the approaching sound of boots against the concrete floor.

The shadow of the guard grows in the square of light along the ground. They shift away as it nears, hands clenching around weapons. It slides of to the side as the guard walks down the hall, footsteps growing fainter.

Straining, Tristan only hears the one pair. Lance, who has a better view of the hallway, suddenly darts out. Tristan bites down on his tongue to stop himself from yelling at Lance, alerting the enemies to them. Instead storing the rebuke for a more appropriate time.

He leans out the doorway in time to see Lance drag them back to the room in a firm choke hold. Knife in hand, he carefully drags it along the neck of their armour and lets them down in a controlled fall. Tristan keeps watch of the now-lit hallway as Lance drags them to the corner of the room.

Closing the door behind them, the two tread down the corridor, careful to breathe silently and walk on the balls of their feet – more difficult than it looks in thick winter boots.

Eyes pinned to the end of the room, Tristan traces his hand along the wall until the rough concrete texture gives way to smooth metal. Lance moves to the other side of the door; the two share a quick glance and a nod before Tristan pushes the door open and Lance weaves in, gun pointed forward.

Tristan’s eyes take time to adjust to the darkness again, the faint impression of neon blue light dancing behind his eyelids. He sees Lance straighten before jerking back into a ready position. Tristan frowns at the centre of the room. Underneath a bare light bulb, sits a briefcase on a metal table: the intelligence.

As Lance walks over to it, left had outstretched, Tristan feels an uneasy clenching in his gut.

It can’t be this easy - _shit_.

In a sudden, violent motion, a guard streaks out from behind the door, yelling _Intruder! Spy!_ They grapple with Lance, scrabbling at his face and neck.

Acting on impulse, Tristan grabs the target and throws them to the opposite wall. Recovering quickly, Lance jerks the gun up and sends three successive shots to their centre mass, hitting their ribs and abdomen.

The guard slumps down the wall, noise ringing in Lance and Tristan’s ears. Their breaths pause in the back of their throats as they listen for charging bad guys.

The hum of their heartbeats is the only response.

Letting out a heavy sigh Lance grabs the case, giving Tristan a quick nod in thanks. As he rounds the corner, intent on getting the hell out of the building before they alert any more guards, the sound of a scuffle and gunshot rings throughout the compound.

A few seconds later, Jesse pokes her head out from the room closest to them. She jerks back at the sight of more people, but relaxes upon realising it’s just Tristan and Lance.

Without any other words, the four tread carefully to the back entrance, where the snowmobiles sit. Considering no one came to check on the commotion, they assumed they’d taken care of all enemies in the compound.

Under the yellow safety light by the snowmobiles, the intelligence cases are opened. All candidates keep an ear open for returning patrolmen as they do. Inside both is a small, circular device. One side embossed with the HTUV logo and the other a smooth, black screen. The other item is an impressive looking flare gun with a red cartridge beside it.

Upon twisting the screen’s bezel, it flares to life in brilliant cyan colours. A flashing arrow appears in the centre, both devices pointing in different directions. Two different pick up points.

Rachel tosses Tristan a keyring; key and bright yellow bauble flailing in the air. As the four prepare to leave, collecting their bags from the slope, Lance turns to the girls.

“See you two back in Washington.”

Jesse turns the key and the snowmobile roars to life.

“See you then, baby face.”

* * *

Two pairs peel off into the night, bound for different directions yet destined for the same location. Lance smiles into the wind, clinging to the snowmobile and Tristan as they race across the powdery snow. He laughs and whoops with the speed of the ride, uncaring for whoever hears it.

_He won. He fucking did it._

Was there ever any doubt?

* * *

They follow the arrow back out into the tundra, Lance navigating and Tristan driving the snowmobile. It’s on a flat patch of land that the arrow becomes an ‘X’, signifying the end of their journey.

Tristan heaves himself off the seat, stiff from the strain of the week.

“I dunno about you,” he starts, cracking his back. “But I’d like to get out of here sooner rather than later.”

Lance hums in agreement, loading the flare gun with numb fingers.

“Let’s hope they haven’t forgotten about us.” He remarks, holding the gun above his head. “Not the biggest fan of the cold right now.”

Lance pulls the trigger. His and Tristan’s faces are illuminated by the bright red light overhead as the shining flare climbs up into the sky. A red beacon against a black backdrop.

Maybe an hour or so of tense waiting passes before the tell tale whir of _Aaquluatchiaq’s_ engines graces Lance’s ears. They load onto the plane, basking in Ada’s praise, despite it being cut in half by a sleepy yawn.

* * *

When they touch down at camp for the last time, Lance is ready to pass out from exhaustion. With none too gentle shoves and elbows from Tristan, he just about makes it to his cabin and into his bed before falling into a deep sleep, still fully clothed in the arctic survival gear they’d supplied him.

Despite the exhaustion and the ache of a week of physical exertion, and the pangs of hunger, and the gritty feeling of being unwashed, and his itchy beard, and his sore feet, Lance feels more whole than any other moment in his life.

As sleep claims him, he feels like he’s finally stepping out from a shadow, and into the light.

* * *

Jason knows he’s lucky. He is. If the fracture had been any higher, he wouldn’t’ve been able to breathe on his own. He’s lucky, for how far he fell. He should have died that day.

But the humiliation and the lack of privacy and the doctors and nurses _staring_ at him all piles up. And when he’s told he’ll never walk again, never regain control of his legs, needs to wear a catheter the rest of his life, the edges of his vision bleeds red and he spits hot embers at whoever was unlucky enough to be in the same room as him at the time.

It’d been a bad week overall. He’s gone past being tired of the pain and loneliness, and straight to being snappish, irritable. Lashing out at anyone unfortunate to be near him. If Frog were here, she’d fix him with a heavy, blank stare.

_Don’t be a prick, kid. They’re just doing their job_. She’d say.

But she’s not here right now. Away on a mission, had been since Tuesday. It’s Sunday now and Jason’s skin itches, like it’s a chalkboard and life is dragging its sharpened nails down it.

In hindsight, Jason realises they’d probably been waiting for him to get like this before approaching.

In the doorway stands a visitor, not Frog, or his mom, or grandfather. A man, oil slick, stares at the equipment surrounding Jason with sharp eyes. Last he’d seen him, he’d been chaperoning Jason during Phase IV, handing him a patch every morning like clockwork.

“Good afternoon, Mr Wallace.” He says. “I’d say it’s time to bring you back home to Washington, don’t you agree?”

Jason stares blankly, not sure if this is some kind of delusion or not.

“It’s a long journey by car. Which is good. We have much to talk about.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm foaming at the mouth rn omg,, finally finished their training. only took 120000 bloody words.
> 
> lmao tristan's M82 has an effective range at 1200 yards and he Was Not shooting at that distance,, i'm gonna wave my hand and say HTUV modified it and let it shoot accurately at a fraction of that distance,,,
> 
> there's going to be a short graduation chapter after this, then a long-ish break while i figure out everything i want for the missions arc before continuing


	26. Graduation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Washington DC  
> January

Lance finally gets his private jet in the form of a blue and white Antonov AN-30. Used as an escape vehicle by an agent during the Cold War, and subsequently gifted to HTUV when they realised they had very little desire to own a plane. It had undergone extensive retrofitting to be better suited for luxury flights than wartime reconnaissance.

Dark leather seats line the walls with accompanying dark cherry tables bolted to the floor. Small touchscreens sprout from the walls, attached by thick, metal arms that could be adjusted. The intricate carpet depicts eagles in flight, wings outstretched around a detailed globe.

Lance peers down at Anchorage as the lights of the city gradually grow further away. Tulmiaq and Ada had flown them over for the last time on their cherry red Cessna 206. The head instructors were making their own way down to Washington, alongside the two pairs who had failed the mission. One had broken their leg falling in a tree well, trying to escape pursuing guards, and the others had been held captive without rescue until the seven days were up.

He feels a strange sort of nostalgia, staring out another window during another long journey. At least this time he's not crammed in an overheating bus on a twenty-hour drive across the country. 

Now, twenty-two trainees… no: _agents_ were cruising at thirty-five thousand feet in the air, looking out of place sipping complimentary champagne in their well-worn training uniforms. They’d earned this luxury; out of the one-hundred and fourteen candidates, they were the ones who remained. They were the best of the best, and they were eager to prove it.

After their hour-long layover in Toronto, the jet refuelling to make the final leg of the journey, Lance sinks into the soft leather seat and lets the buzzing conversations wash over him. Rachel had managed to wrangle Xiao and Sakho into telling their own misadventures out on the tundra.

They’d been sent to the northernmost sector of Desolation Sound, where hundreds of frozen lakes dotted the landscape. Their infiltration of the compound was not unlike their own, only difference being Xiao would make pot shots at the compound to draw out the guards while Sakho snuck in through the back.

The other difference was the polar bear they’d encountered on their way there.

“Not going to lie, I was very sure I was gonna be its next meal.” Xiao says, gesturing with his half empty champagne flute. “Thankfully Khadim had the sense of mind to pull out the bear spray and actually use it.” Xiao nudges the Senegal national, who shrugs with a smile.

“Eh, it was either that or apply for a new partner. Sounds tedious.” He winks at Xiao, sipping at his drink.

The passengers constantly shift in the plane, moving from group to group to loudly recount stories from the training course and their own childhoods.

“And, and,” Tristan pauses to giggle, face flushed from the drink he’d consumed. “Shit – the bastard sets his donkey on me.”

“Do… do you mean his dog?” Rachel interrupts, frowning at Tristan, who shakes his head.

“No! Arsehole had a guard donkey. Thing was vicious, too. Chased me n’ my friends out of the property – at least an acre’s distance.”

“Is all of Australia like that or just the specific area you managed to grow up in?” Jesse asks, crossing her arms.

“Aw, you’ll just have to find out for yourselves.” Tristan smirks into his glass, taking a drink. Jesse scoffs and pushes the bottom of the glass up. Tristan sputters as champagne splashes over his face, dribbling down his chin.

_Ugh- you’re a dick!_

_Coming from you, Tex, that’s a compliment._

* * *

It’s January third, and there’s snow on the ground when they touch down in DC. There wasn't any, when he left. Lance’s smile stretches across his face at the familiar sights. It’s been too long since he was last home.

HTUV staff usher the drunk, rowdy graduates to their hotel rooms. With a head full of cotton and a warm stomach, Lance falls asleep across the bed with his shoes on, too tired to care.

* * *

The graduation ceremony is held in the HTUV headquarters itself. The newest field agents line the front rows, all fresh and sharp in their tailored suits. Lance even shaved off his beard, had spent all of ten minutes staring at his reflection, deciding whether or not to keep the goatee or not. He'd shaken his head - it makes him look _old_. Behind them sit the instructors from all previous phases.

Wells nods at Beau, who cracks a smile at seeing his old friend. While neither are outwardly warm, they relax when they find seats beside each other. The ex-agents reminisce about the time they were the inexperienced rookies, murmuring shared experiences to the other.

_Remember when you asked a farmer if they knew what a tractor was?_

_Remember when you mixed up Vietnamese and Chinese in_ Vietnam _of all places?_

Rashida, Cabo and Yasmin sit to the left of Beau, murmuring about recent gossip from HQ. Apparently something big has been going on in Greenland.

Gila sits on the edge of the row, arms crossed and legs splayed out. Her eyes pick over the new agents, nodding when she sees Lance and Tristan’s heads, turning towards each other in conversation. The graduates sit tall; oozing the poise and confidence that makes an HTUV agent so infamous in the underworld. The larger, cynical part of her wonders how many will make it past the first year.

Beside Gila, Frog swivels her head to the back of the room, scanning the guests behind them. It was mostly populated by trainees that had dropped from the course and subsequently hired by HTUV. It was a silly hope, but Frog still looked for a sign of Jason; a wheelchair, mop of strawberry blond hair he insists is regular blond - so she says is basically ginger to piss him off, or a glaring, droopy gaze.

But there’s nothing. There hasn’t been hide nor hair of the man since she’d left for a mission in Sri Lanka. Her hair still smells like rotting seaweed as she’d only just gotten back. When Frog had called the hospital, hoping to contact Jason and give him her phone number like she’d been meaning to, they said he’d been transferred.

Frog sighs.

“Is your head so waterlogged you forgot the new agents are in front of us, Te Awa?” Drawls Gila.

“Not allowed to look behind me, Fischer? Don’t you know it’s bad practice not to watch one’s back?”

Gila lets out a chuckle.

“You and I both know neither of us really gave a shit about the agent protocols Instructor Jasper tired to drill into our thick skulls.” She shrugs one shoulder, giving an air of apathy. “But hey, keep your reasons to yourself if it’s that private.”

Frog rolls her eyes but settles in her seat, eyes glued to the podium in front of them.

McCune sits in the middle of the row, straight backed and silent. She hears the conversations from agents a fraction of her age and smiles. This time of the year was always her favourite. Some people like New Years because it’s a chance to better oneself, a new beginning. She sees it as an affirmation that things will keep going when she finally croaks. That there will always be young people willing to risk their lives for the rest of the world.

To her left, Ming is slouched over his chair, legs crossed, and talking with the head instructor of Phase V and Agent Olokodana. His attention flicks to the multiple conversations round him, something that had made him a good candidate for recon missions in populated areas.

Tulmiaq chats with some of the other instructors he recognises, blocking out the noise around him. The four trainees who hadn’t passed Phase V would be in the crowd somewhere. Most who dropped in the final phase were almost always recruited by Internal Affairs.

While it wasn’t as respected a position as field agent, Tulmiaq doesn’t doubt it’s important in keeping HTUV running. He wouldn’t know for sure, though, he only comes down when necessary, more than happy to live out the rest of his days back home.

Sitting down, Ada fidgets in her formal attire, more used to thick winter clothes and the outdoors than this stuffy room filled with people older than her. The last time she was in a room with multiple people was in high school, and even then the class sizes were small.

In the back of the room, Moira elbows her way to where Piotr, David and Ramira sit. Piotr's somehow managing to snooze in all this racket, even with the other three talking around him. They let him sleep, he's been busy with his degree and all the projects the Tech Labs are given. David's been thinking of expanding the cafe, open another on another floor. Moira really hopes it goes through, she works on the fourth floor and his coffee is too out of the way on her usual mad dash into work.

The room quiets when Joy walks across the stage to the dark oak podium. Even if people didn’t recognise her, the sharpness in her gaze and her confident stride was enough of an indication to her importance within HTUV.

She takes a second to look around the room, welcoming all guests to the event.

“It’s not every day a group of promising young individuals are given the chance to train with the best of the best; to develop a skill set perfectly suited to the environment HTUV field agents thrive in. Of all specialist military and intelligence forces in the US, it is _only_ HTUV who recruits once a year.

“We have our reasons, not even the Green Berets face what we do. The Special Agents of HTUV are our raised fists and shields against the aggressors of the world and today, we welcome the newest additions to those ranks.”

Joy nods to the first row in front of her, calling up the agents in their pairs to walk across the stage, shake her hand, and receive a commemorative brooch of an eagle, wings spread to protect the earth.

After all agents had walked across the stage to solidify their positions as agents, Joy calls for Agents McFord and Sterling to accept the Honours Plaque, signifying their high level of achievement throughout the course. It's a thick, black slab with golden inlay of their names, their year group, and the HTUV logo. It has a noticeable weight in Tristan's hand as he runs a finger over the etching.

Gila smiles softly for the first time in years, remembering how proud she had felt to receive it in her time. She sees that expression reflected in Lance and Tristan now. Frog catches this smile on Gila, and finds it doesn't look half bad.

Warren watches his son cross the stage, he stands proud, wearing the suit well and holding himself like a real agent. Like his mother had.

He blinks away burning, bitter tears and claps for his son.

Across the row, Rashida smirks as grumbling instructors and employees deposit their bills into her outstretched palm.

“What’d I tell you, Dragov?”

Cabo shushes her as Joy makes to speak again, refusing to look at her smug grin.

“I doubt the head instructors gave any of you the illusion that this job will be easy.” Joy says, addressing the new agents directly. “Tonight is a time for celebration. Come morning, however, you will begin a lifelong career as an HTUV Special Agent.”

Joy winks at them.

“So go on, agents, go save the word for us.”

The room erupts into cheering and clapping. Amidst the sound and movement and celebration, Lance feels an elbow nudge him.

“Looks like we made it, huh?” Tristan says, lacquered black plaque tucked under his arm and silver brooch already pinned to his lapel.

Lance smiles to his partner, excited for what lies ahead.

“Yeah. I guess we did.”

* * *

Joy looks over the graduating year of 1999, or the ninety-niners as some of the senior agents had been referring to them as. These graduates were the next generation of special agents, forging HTUV’s future in the new millennium. Joy carefully looks over all their faces, committing them to memory.

_McFord and Sterling, Yamamoto and Alverez, Akombe and West, Palmeiro and Pandey, Carnagan and Serrano, Spence and Hu, Jimenez and Dunmore, Man and Sakho, Baker and Royale, Nguyen and Marathi, Njoku and Dixit._

Eleven pairs, just like ’49 and ‘69. Thirteen Americans, including the Territories like Guam and Puerto Rico. One is Chinese, another is from Senegal. Two Canadians, two Indians, one Brazilian, one Australian, and one Nigerian.

Tulmiaq had sent over the recordings from the final test. Small, hidden cameras scattered around every compound in Desolation Sound had captured the trainee agents in action. Joy had to admit; they were damn good for rookies.

She feels a bloom of pride in her chest watching a Lance Sterling drag a guard into a dark room before slitting their throat. Good. Arterial spray gets everywhere.

Joy’s head snaps up upon hearing a knock. McCune leans on the frame, sheaf of paper in hand. Joy straightens almost instinctively at seeing her old mentor in person for the first time in years.

“Saoirse! It’s been a while.” A half smile breaks across her face, eyebrows high. McCune nods in agreement.

“That it has Joy.” McCune makes her way across Jenkins’ office, heels clacking against the tile floor. “Unfortunately it’s not the most pleasant of reasons that I’m here.” She hands Joy the papers; all eight sheets neatly stapled together. Joy doesn’t have to look at them to know what they pertain to.

“You’re retiring.” She says, frowning. 

“Wasn’t lying when I said I’d be done by the next millennia.” Joy’s frown doesn’t let up and McCune sighs. “I’ve been at this for decades, Joy. It’s time for me to finally give these new kids their space to grow, and what better time than the beginning of the twenty first century?”

“Awful poetic for the likes of you, Soairse, no offense.”

McCune shrugs.

“Guess all the shite’s that happened in this past year has given me a flair for the dramatics.”

Joy hums, memories of medical reports, Albanian chemical weapons, swamp fights, and a shot down plane over Greenland come to mind, as well as all the paperwork that came with it.

She looks back up at Saorise, her pale stare had once intimidated her as a recruit. It’s softer now, a rough stone worn away by the waters of time.

“Well…” Joy doesn’t hesitate. She’s the Director, they don’t hesitate, they pause for effect. The fact that she’s struggling to find words is just because it’s late in the evening.

“Enjoy your retirement.” She finishes lamely.

McCune nods.

“That I will, dear. It’s been a long time since I’ve had rest.”

With that, Saorise McCune, the first woman to become an HTUV field agent, says goodbye to her protégé, the first female Director and leaves the headquarters she’d helped build from the ground up. In the Director’s office, she shuffles papers without focus, mind already buzzing with the things she _could_ have said. She sighs and lumps the new regret with the rest of the guilt and sadness and wishes that things had been different.

This is the last time they will see each other again. Neither lives end in tragedy, time simply marches on.

Down the street, celebrations go on inside a bar. Young agents and new HTUV employees drink to their success, shiny and new in this rusted world. Ready to face whatever comes their way.

* * *

**End of Arc I**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOOOOOOOO THE TRAINING ARC IS FINALLY DONE!!!!!!!!!!!!
> 
> legit wrote a novel over the summer and it's for the will smith pigeon movie lmao
> 
> this is about the halfway point, half want to apologise for how long it took to get to this point n im aware it's p boring that i've introduced so many ocs and no fun cool plot etc, but setup's gotta happen and i want to establish the world before all the good stuff happens lmao
> 
> i'm gonna take a long-ish break to do other stuff and hammer out details i want out of the missions arc, so if you see this fic later on and it hasn't updated in a while, it's gonna be because of uni and planning, not that i've given up or w/e, while this thing hasn't gotten a whole lot of attention, it's still mainly for me. Big Thank you to DankSide_oftheMoon, though, your comments are really what i look forward to after writing these :')


	27. The Great North and South American Road-Trip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2000  
> North and South America

Minnesota. Lance was stuck in a shitty rental with musty heat guttering through fuzzy vents, Tristan shivering in the passenger seat. In Minne-fucking-sota.

Maybe it was the lingering ego and entitlement that training couldn’t beat out of him, but Lance was expecting his first year as an agent to be one of high-stakes missions in exotic, far flung corners of the globe. Every minute soaked in adrenaline, fast-paced and as thrilling as he’d always imagined. 

Instead he was here, in Darwin, Minnesota. In late February, staking out the World’s Largest Ball of Twine - Built by One Man, because there was one in Kansas, and they had to differentiate between the two.

“Who would even want to steal this thing?” He gripes, blowing out a cloud of white steam. Beside him, Tristan grunts.

“Dunno. Some prick who’s been stealing roadside attractions, sellin’ ‘em off to the black market.” He replies, voice muffled under the thick scarf he’d bought in the Goodwill down the road after coming to the horrible realisation, that while Minnesota is nowhere near as north as Alaska, it was still _cold_.

Lance scrunches his face up, reaching over the dash to wipe away the condensation. “Of all the things for there to be a market for, I wouldn’t’ve thought random roadside attractions would be in high demand.”

“Probably an American behind this, no one else _likes_ these things like you yanks do.”

“Hey, they’re a cultural staple.” Lance objects, peering at the glass-enclosed gazebo housing the nine-ton, misshapen ball.

It had been a twelve-hour drive from Indianapolis, where Lance and Tristan made a dead drop in a Turkish deli before taking a detour to Springfield to pick up a flash drive, drove to Cedar Rapids to drop it off and check back in with HQ via phone booth.

Instead of heading home, they were immediately briefed and sent to Darwin, the coordinator assuring them that it was an emergency, and they would have been notified sooner if it were possible. As Lance slouches in the leather seat, ankles stiff from driving all day, he once again doubts the urgency of the whole operation.

“It’s not like someone’s going to just roll the thing out of its enclosure.” Tristan remarks. Lance snorts at the image.

“Maybe they use mirrors.”

“For what?”

“Illusions and shit. Like magicians; saw it in a movie.”

“Why’re you always referencing movies, mate?”

Lance opens his mouth when the radio squeals and crackles. The men wince but make no move to turn it off.

_All field agents, all field agents. This is Memorial HQ. Those assigned to American roadside attractions disengage. The thief has been apprehended. Report back to Washington for debrief._

Tristan sighs, knocking back against the head rest. “Finally.”

Lance reverses out of the parking lot, wincing at the groaning of the car’s frame as he turns. Blinking away the gathering tiredness, he maps out the journey back to DC in his head.

“Don’t think we’ll be making it back to Memorial HQ today.” He notes, turning the heating vents away from his face.

“We’ll stay at a motel on the way.” Tristan hums, yawning with an audible crack.

“Fine, but it’s your turn to pay for the rooms.” Lance sees Tristan frown out the corner of his eye.

“What? I paid last time.”

The road evens out onto newer tarmac, making their voices seem louder from the lack of crunching gravel.

“Yeah, and you’ll pay again because I’ve been paying for gas.”

“I gave you ten dollars for gas last week.”

“And incredibly enough, it’s gonna take another ten dollars out of my wallet to get us home.”

Tristan huffs, letting his head fall back against headrest.

“Fine, whatever. S’long as we actually get back to DC without this thing breaking down on us.”

“Did they teach you nothing in those engineering classes, or have you already forgotten them?”

“Oh, piss off.”

Lance chuckles, letting the indicator fall with a click as they turn off 1st Street. The World’s Largest Ball of Twine (Built by One Man) is obscured by wood-panel houses and occasional chain restaurant.

They head back down the I-90, the soft crackling of the radio set to 823.4AM their only passenger. 

* * *

While living in DC isn’t exactly cheap, HTUV’s field agent salary makes it manageable. But still, it would help to have some money on the side for emergencies. Lance wouldn’t have minded having a roommate or two in some Lanier Heights studio apartment. Only thing is he didn’t exactly have a wealth of people to choose from, and Tristan was less than welcoming to the idea of sharing a living space.

“Lance,” he'd said, severely, putting a hand on Lance’s shoulder. “If we both worked and lived together, I would throttle you. I just know it.”

So instead, Lance had gotten a two bedroom near the Embassy of Cuba. The landlord had thrown in a spring box bedframe and mustard yellow couch for a discounted price.

“It kinda smells in here, did you check for black mold?”

“I checked before I signed the lease, Moira.” Sighs Lance, handing her a cold beer from the fridge they had just heaved up the stairwell.

“He’ll find out if it’s black mold when his lungs start to haemorrhage.” Remarks Piotr, taking a long drink from his own bottle.

“Could be someone living in the walls.” Says Tristan’s muffled voice as he and Jesse check the piping in his bathroom sink. Not that Lance felt like it was needed, but there wasn’t any stopping those two.

“Maybe your next door neighbour’s making drugs in the bathtub.”

“That’s moonshine, Jesse.” Replies Rachel, slouched over the couch.

“The hell do they make drugs in then?”

“I dunno, on a table?” Tristan responds, shrugging.

“Don’t the cartels use trashcans? Think I read that somewhere.” Says Lance, scratching his chin where a three-day stubble grows. He’d hadn’t had any time between moving and his work for a proper shave.

“Sounds unsanitary.” Says Moira, settling on the couch.

“I doubt the cartel cares about the purity of their product.” Piotr quips.

There’s the sound of straining plastic and a grunt. Lance hears Tristan hum an affirmation to Jesse’s muffled question before both of them emerge from the bathroom.

“Right, we cleaned out the hair and checked the seals, you should be good for now.” Reports Tristan, grabbing a beer from the fridge and looking around the small living room-kitchen. He frowns when he realises all spots on the couch have been taken, and Piotr’s taken the only folding chair, where he sits hunched over a thick textbook.

Tristan huffs, taking the floor by the couch.

There’s a lull of quiet as the group look around Lance’s newly furnished apartment. There’s a pile of dented cardboard boxes off to the side and his clothes have yet to be hanged up in his new closet. Lance’s hands smell of plastic from unwrapping the mattress, and a satisfied energy hangs in the air from a job well done. Early spring air creeps in through the cracked window, bringing with it the faint sounds of traffic and chatter.

“This is nice.” Hums Moira, knocking back the dregs of her beer with a sense of finality.

Lance nods, it is.

* * *

The coordinator had met Lance and Tristan in person for a briefing, handing them a manila folder and telling them the mission would possibly involve a fire fight, hostile engagement expected. Some information cache that needed to be destroyed.

The two were flown up to the middle of nowhere in rural Quebec, where spring had had its hold long enough to turn most of the snow into piles of brown slush on the sides of the road. They'd met with a hired team of mercenaries from the Richter Company, a global organisation of soldiers of fortune. Some days they found themselves under the employ of HTUV to aid their field agents, while others they were the assholes HTUV were shooting at. It led to a tense working atmosphere, but considering Lance’s line of work, it’s already tense to begin with.

The man leading the team, Heidrick Jakobsen, was barely older than Lance but held himself like a seasoned veteran.

“Try not to get in our way, agents.” Jakobsen had told Lance, shaking his hand.

“Same to you, merc.” Lance had replied; large smile stretching across his face and never reaching his eyes.

Now, shrapnel bursts over Lance’s head as he dives down to the ground. He feels himself be dragged to cover by the scruff of his neck. Looking up, he nods at Tristan before aiming down the sites of his carbine rifle, firing off a burst of gunfire to the pillar in front of them. One body crumples to the ground as another jerks back behind cover.

“Where the hell are those mercs?”

There’s a rumble and a flash of heat as a sudden shockwave knocks the men to the ground. The smell of ozone leaks into the air .

“Over there.” Tristan groans, looking up at the smoking remains of a wooden building. He turns and finishes off the remaining grunts who hadn’t been knocked dead or unconscious by the blast.

“It would help if they, y’know, _told us when they were going to use plastic explosives_.” Lance hisses as they stalk towards a familiar group of people in black and red body armour. 

“They’re mercs, you think they care about us? We’re just here to keep an eye on Richter Company so they don’t violate the bloody Geneva Convention.”

Lance looks to the thick column of black smoke and acrid taste in the air. “Yeah, don’t think we managed that.”

The young man nods to Tristan and Lance as they near.

“Agents,” He smirks, eyes flicking to the singe marks on their suits. “Good to see you two weren’t too close to the detonation.”

“Shove it Jakobsen. Next time warn us when you’re gonna recreate Fukushima, yeah?” Tristan growls. Lance knocks the side of his head, trying to dislodge the ringing.

“We all need surprises every now and again, McFord.” Jakobsen remarks, holding back a laugh. The men and women behind him snicker.

“Can’t say getting my eardrums blown in is a pleasant one.” Lance gripes, brow raised.

Jakobsen shrugs.

“The job is done and now we can all go home. You’re welcome.”

Jakobsen turns on his heel, strutting away from the agents. Tristan rolls his eyes as Richter Company make their way to their own transport.

“Pricks.”

“Yeah whatever man, let’s go home, I think some shrapnel got lodged in my ear.”

* * *

Tristan grumbles a curse under his breath, glowering at the raised undercarriage of their shitty 1990 Toyota Corolla. The roads in this part of rural Virginia were, for the most part, unpaved. He checks for any damage after they’d hit a nasty pothole, tire ripping on a sharp edge and nearly throwing them off the road. Knowing their luck, the axle could be broken as well, effectively stranding them fifty miles from the nearest town. Tristan wipes the sweat from his brow, balmy June air sticking to his skin like a greasy film he couldn't remove.

It had been the last leg of a three day drive up from Belize. A mission that ended in a shootout against a cartel entourage, who hadn’t taken kindly to HTUV’s attempted termination of their boss. Tristan and Lance had been the backup team, the more senior agent pair getting up close while they waited safely behind a scope.

Things had gotten ugly when a street kid had warned the cartel of the agents lurking in the shadows. One of the men, with a snake tattoo winding around his wrist, had whipped around faster than Tristan could blink, and shot a dime-size hole through one of the agents’ heads. Chaos broke out as a firefight erupted in the streets.

Lance and Tristan hightailed it out of there, the remaining agent barked orders to get back to HQ before they could be captured or killed. She’d gone radio silent, neither man knowing if the agent got out alive, let alone out of the country.

So they drove, nerves frayed and shaking. They’d driven in shifts, one sleeping in the passenger seat while the other stared down an ever stretching road of white and yellow lines. Never stopping, even when they'd crossed the border. Tristan scrubs his face with a shaking hand, eyes blurring.

He knew this job was dangerous, that living to an old age was a privilege. But even as Tristan tried to focus on the car in front of him, he couldn’t stop seeing the spray of dark brain matter and the twitching corpse of a man who had shaken his hand and welcomed him to the mission only a few hours beforehand. 

A knock on glass jolts Tristan out of his thoughts as he jerks his head up to look at Lance. Who looks down at Tristan through the window of the car.

“You good?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll be fine.” Tristan replies, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“How’s the car?”

“It’s uh…” Tristan blinks, shaking his head. “Give me a minute.”

“You need help, man?”

“It’s fine, Lance.”

“You sure you don’t-“

“Lance. Don’t.”

Tristan ignores the feeling of Lance’s gaze on the back of his neck, opting to shine his small pocket flashlight at the undercarriage. Squinting against the dusk’s darkness, he feels a rush of relief when there’s no sign of damage on the axle.

There’s a heavy pause that presses against the back of Tristan’s tongue. He swallows down the embers in his mouth and looks up at Lance, who’s face is as drawn and exhausted as his own.

“I- Sorry. It’s just…” He trails off, gesturing to nothing and frowning at the dirt road they’d found themselves on. He sees the sun set in his peripheral vision, cherry red against the midnight haze of a dusty road. He still smells gunpowder.

“I get it.” Lance replies, softly.

Tristan looks down, sucking on his teeth.

“I could use a hand. With the tire.” Tristan says, nodding to the boot of the car.

Lance gives him a tired smile, dark smudges under his eyes only more obvious in the yellow interior light of the car.

“All you had to do was ask, man.”

They get back to Washington DC that evening. They’re rushed to debrief, half conscious and stinking of sweat and travel. Seven senior-looking HTUV employees listen to their account of the mission with grim expressions.

Six days later, two memorial stars are lain on the wall. One body was never found. The other was found in an abandoned shipping container with thirty other corpses. All missing their major internal organs.

* * *

“No, ma’am, we’re looking for Kamloops, not Kelowna.”

“Oh you shoulda said, sure.” The woman’s cream coloured cowboy hat bobs with her nod. a fat snowflake lands on the brim, collecting with the fine layer of white snow piling up on her hat. Despite it only being September, the province had been hit with a sudden cold snap. Her horse, a white and red paint, whickers as she adjusts her grip on the thick leather reins. “If you head down the highway, like you’re going to Vancouver, keep headin’ down ‘till you’re at a big junction. Take a left and you should see a gas stop. Keep goin’ down and – _hey you bastard, get back here! Motherfucker do not bite that bull!”_

Lance jerks back as the woman’s warm face suddenly warps into a ferocious snarl as she roars down the road. His and Tristan’s heads swivel to look down to where she’s yelling, just in time to see a black and white border collie narrowly avoid getting kicked in the snout as it snaps at the ankles of a large, red bull.

“Sorry about that, she’s a new pup we’ve been trainin’. Still hasn’t learned what it’s like get your teeth kicked in just yet.” The woman smiles, revealing a dark gap where a canine should be. “So where’d you two said you were going again?”

Lance smiles, trying to hide a wince.

“Y’know, I think I know where I’m going now, thanks.”

The woman nods again,

“Good luck with the cattle drive.”

“If we’re lucky, only a couple'a cows’ll break their legs in tree wells!” She crows a laugh, taking a large gulp from her beer can. “Safe travels, careful of the black ice. You Americans are always crashing on that highway; we don’t call it the Ice Road for nothing!”

Lance nods, laughing with her, and turning to Tristan. They share a worried glance. _Ice Road_?

With a click, the horse clops away from the 1990 Toyota Corolla. The woman lets out a sharp whistle that makes Tristan wince. Three border collies emerge from the ditch by the side of the road, beginning to drive the cattle down and across the road, back onto ranch land. The woman eventually disappears, shouting commands at the dogs and talking into her thick, plastic walkie talkie.

When the last cow finally crosses the road, Lance and Tristan are free to continue driving. They were supposed to be in Kamloops three hours ago, surveillance on some meat packing plant.

Lance sighs, winching up the window and shifting the car into first. Tristan watches the fading silhouettes of the cows as they drive away.

“Well. She’s a character.” He remarks, brow raised.

“Canadians are like that.” Lance says, shrugging. He just hopes Moira won’t bite their heads off for being late to rendezvous.

* * *

“What do you mean, ‘cows blocked the road’? You two were five hours late to a time sensitive mission!”

“Moira, it was a lot of cows, alright?”

* * *

“So what does that do?”

“Don’t you have anything better to do than annoy me, Lance?”

“What, I can’t visit my favourite Russian tech labs employee?”

“If you don’t either leave or tell me why you’re here, I’m going to start beating you to death with a monkey wrench.”

“Wow, very funny.”

Piotr doesn’t respond, simply raising his eyebrows as he gives Lance a look. Lance hops off the table he’d been perched on, palms up in surrender.

“Okay, okay. Maybe I wanted to know how that car’s coming along.”

“Don’t you have one already?”

“Okay, one, I share it with Tristan. Two, it’s a rental. And three, it barely works, nearly died of heat stroke in Texas a couple months ago because it broke down on the highway in the middle of the day. The AC didn’t work either.”

Piotr rolls his eyes, grabbing a thick binder from the shelf above him.

“Then save up to buy yourself a car, I’m not some automobile dispenser. And this car will take years to develop, so you'll just have to wait.”

“Aw dude, come on!”

“Christ, go bother Tristan. I have to work on my code, it’s not running right.”

“He’s talking about robotics with some nerd on the other side of the room, boring stuff.”

Piotr hums, glaring at the computer screen where the green and blue script dances across it almost mockingly.

“And I’ve lost you, haven’t I?”

Piotr grunts, eyes glued to the screen. He waves Lance away, who rolls his eyes and putters around the busy floor. It’s a strange combination of automobile, robotic, chemical, and biological engineering that seems almost dangerous to have in the one enclosed space. He vaguely wonders how much of HTUV's funding is put away for accidents on this floor.

Several floors up, Jason wheels into his office. Official files states he's a Junior Floor Manager. All that meant was he takes his boss' calls, organises meetings, and deals with complaints.

Frog had tried to set up a celebration night to commemorate his new job, but she'd had to cancel last minute for a mission in Guam. Yeah, she'd sounded sorry over the phone, and Jason knew it was important. But it still hurt to sit in his empty living room with it all set up for a party, only for it to never happen. Hollow, disappointed ghosts took up the seats on the couch, instead of his friends. Did he even have friends, though? He wasn't exactly the most pleasant person during training, he's gone to enough therapy sessions with Dr. Sharon Kripke to acknowledge that. Even before HTUV, he'd been more focused on schoolwork to get into a prestigious university than getting to know people. All his work was towards becoming a field agent.

And look where he is now. Glorified, wheelchair-bound secretary. He's almost relieved his dad's dead. Probably shouldn't tell Sharon he thought that.

B. Viryin. That was the man's name. He hadn't told Jason, no. Jason had caught the name on the desk placard when he first went into the man's office. Some upper-middle management with far more ambition than was healthy. There was something going on behind closed doors that even Jason wasn't privy to, wasn't sure if he wanted to be, either. The people Viryin hosted weren't pleasant by any means, but thankfully would leave him alone for the most part. Just the secretary, nothing more. 

Being Viryin's errand boy usually resulted in Jason handling sensitive documents for proper disposal. Which meant an awkward journey to the other side of the floor with half the employees staring at him as he passed. Their gazes prickle up his neck. Even if they don't know who the Wallaces are, or what he did to end up in the chair, it's the thought of being seen as anything other than what he was supposed to be that chafes. His glare stays firmly in place every time he wheels down to the shredder. 

He's supposed to get rid of these documents. But there's no cameras in this part of the office. The shredder doesn't log anything, either. So, when Jason leafs through the papers, alone in the dark corner, he suddenly realises it may be in his best interests to hold onto these things and the damning contents within.

Jason carefully slips the files into the underhand compartment in his chair. He vaguely wonders if this is what his life would have been like as a spy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *loud, prolonged scream* k let's do this  
> that rancher lady is 100% just my grandma, cool lady, could smoke, drink and ride a horse at once, had Issues but don't we all?  
> this is a short chapter, trying to get back into the swing of writing this lmao, bear with me

**Author's Note:**

> If you want, hmu on tumblr - https://iravaid.tumblr.com


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